•NRLF 


•awe 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped   by 
GEORGE    A.    CURTIS; 

ENOLA.ND   TTPB    AND   8TKHBOTTPB    FOON1 


TO 

HIM    WHO    IS    HENCEFORTH    TO    BE 
MY   GUIDE    THROUGH   LIFE,    ITS    SUNLIGHT    AND    ITS   GLOOM, 

THESE    FEW    LITTLE   FLOWERS, 

GATHERED    BY    THE    WAYSIDE    BEFORE    WE    HAD    MET, 
ARE      HALF-TREMBLINGLY,     BUT     MOST     AFFECTIONATELY, 

DEDICATED. 

MAY  THEIR  PERFUME  BE  GRATEFUL  ' 
THEIR  FRAGILITY  BE  PARDONED  ; 

AND 

HEAV£N  GRANT  THAT  NO  UNSUSPECTED  POISON  MAY  BE 
FOUND  LURKING  AMONG  THEIR  LEAVES  ! 

FANNY  FORESTER. 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE    FIRST    VOLUME. 


GRACE  LINDEN, 7 

CLINGING  TO  EARTH, 73 

ASPIRING  TO  HEAVEN, 74 

UNDERBILL  COTTAGE, 75 

LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE, 82 

MY  OLD  PLAYMATE, 104 

OUR  MAY, 116 

THE  WEAVER, 128 

SAVE  THE  ERRING, 131 

MY  UNCLE  STILLING, 151 

NICKIE  BEN, 170 

WHERE  ARE  THE  DEAD? 185 

THE  YOUNG  DREAM, 187 

THE  BANK  NOTE, 208 

To  MY  SISTER  IN  HEAVEN, 234 

ALLY  FISHER, 237 

EDITH  RAY, 248 

KITTY  COLEMAN, 252 

ROBERT  FLEMMING,  OR  "  WHAT  THAT  BOY  DID  COME  TO  AT  LAST,"  258 

To  MY  MOTHER, 275 

APRIL,       277 

A  WISH,        278 

To  AN  INFANT,        278 

THE  OLD  MAN  —  A  FACT, 279 

GRANDFATHER, 281 

THE  DYING  EXILE, 284 

1* 


LETTER  FROM  THE  WRITER  TO  THE  PUBLISHERS, 

AS   A 

PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 


To  MESSRS.  WM.  D.  TICKNOR  &  Co.  :  — 

DEAR  SIRS  :  —  The  copy  of  Alderbrook  which  you  were  so  kind  as  to  for 
ward,  reached  us  some  weeks  since  ;  and  really  it  came  to  me,  in  the  midst 
of  my  new  associations,  like  a  spectre  from  the  world  of  the  antediluvians. 
It  seemed  scarcely  possible,  as  I  turned  over  leaf  after  leaf,  that  I  could  ever 
have  been  conversant  with  such  scenes  —  scenes  in  which  not  only  the  human 
face,  but  everything,  down  to  the  little  bird  and  flower,  were  so  utterly  unlike 
those,  which  are  here  daily  becoming  more  and  more  familiar.  It  is  aston 
ishing  how  many  years  may  be  lived  in  one. 

I  send  you  a  list  of  corrections  for  a  new  edition.  The  poem  entitled  <(  The 
Weaver,"  I  re-wrote  soon  after  leaving  Boston ;  —  please  admit  the  emen 
dations. 

Of  the  various  articles  which  the  book  contains,  I  am  the  least  satisfied 
with  "  Ida  Ravelin  ;"  because  it  verges  too  closely  on  a  class  of  writings  just 
now  somewhat  mischievously  fashionable  in  America.  Beside,  it  is  the  only 
article  written  without  "aim  or  object;"  and,  I  think,  the  only  one  which 
has  no  foundation  in  reality.  One  of  the  last  things  which  I  wrote  before 
leaving  America,  was  the  "Angel's  Pilgrimage  ;"  and,  as  it  properly  belongs 
to  this  collection,  I  should  like  to  see  it  substituted  for  "  Ida  Ravelin."* 

Accompanying  this,  you  will  receive  several  articles  which  should  have 
been  in  the  poetical  list  of  the  first  edition.  One  of  the  pieces  formerly  ap 
peared  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  ;  two  or  three  in  other  periodicals, 
and  some  have  never  been  published  at  all. 

While  I  have  been  telling  you  these  things,  and  especially  while  copying 
the  old  poems,  memory  has  been  practising  some  very  pleasing  illusions  ;  so 
that  I  seemed  to  be  revisiting  my  old  haunts.  But  now  I  am  at  home  again 
—  talking  across  the  ocean  to  a  world  which  begins  already  to  gather  shad 
ows  about,  it ;  and  I  must  once  more  repeat  the  adieu  to  Alderbrook  —  a 
final  farewell.  E.  C.  J. 

Maulmain,  Dec.,  1847. 

*  We  have  taken  the  liberty  to  retain  the  story  here  referred  to,  as  the  objection 
brought  against  it  by  the  author  is  more  than  balanced  by  the  graceful  beauty  of  style 
and  admirable  spirit  in  which  it  is  written.  The  piece  intended  by  Mrs.  Judson  as  a 
substitute,  is  now  printed  as  additional  matter  to  volume  second. 

W.  D.  T.  &  CO. 


ALDERBROOK, 


GRACE  LINDEN. 

FOUR  AGES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN. 

CHAPTER  I. — EIGHT. 

"  THIS  will  be  quite  pleasant,  after  all,  mother — quite  pleas 
ant.  This  nice  little  room  is  just  the  place  for  me.  We  will 
train  a  vine  over  the  window,  and  my  books  shall  be  upon  the 
table  close  by  — " 

"  We  shall  need  the  table  now,  my  daughter.  Your  fa 
ther  thinks  we  can  take  two  boarders,  though  for  my  part  I 
see  no  place  to  put  them,"  and  the  mother  cast  an  anxious, 
troubled  glance  about  the  apartment. 

"  Two  boarders  !     It  will  come  hard  upon  you,  mother." 

"  Oh  no,  dear,  no !  Not  so  hard,  Abby,  as  upon  the  poor 
children.  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  their  being  shut  up  the 
livelong  day  —  stifled  for  the  want  of  pure  air — work,  work, 
working  every  moment,  till  their  little  limbs  are  ready  to  drop 
off  with  pain.  It  is  horrible  to  me,  Abby ! " 

The  poor  woman,  as  she  spoke,  shuddered  at  the  sad  pic 
ture  which  needed  not  the  coloring  of  a  mother's  imagination. 
For  a  moment  the  pale  lips  of  the  girl  trembled,  and  a  tear 
quivered  in  her  eye ;  but,  with  a  strong  effort  she  suppressed 
the  emotion,  and  replied  cheerfully.  It  was  certainly,  (so  said 
the  sympathizing  Abby,)  a  hard  thing  for  the  poor  children  to 


GRACE    LINDEN. 

be  shut  away  from  the  sunshine ;  but  she  was  sure  the  labor 
would  be  light ;  Mr.  Russel  promised  that ;  and  if  it  was 
found  in  any  way  injurious  to  health,  or  even  spirits,  a  change 
of  some  kind  must  of  course  be  made.  "  It  is  only  a  trial, 
3ar  mother,"  she  added,  smiling. 

"  My  life  has  been  all  trials,"  was  the  desponding  reply , 
and  the  mother  might  have  added,  that  she  knew  one  awaited 
her  harder  to  bear  than  all  the  others. 

The  life  of  Mis.  Linden  had,  indeed,  been  one  of  severe 
trials ;  of  sufferings  and  sorrows  untold,  and  scarce  imagined 
by  her  delicately  nurtured  country-women ;  for,  thanks  to  the 
chivalrous  spirit  of  America,  her  women  are  her  jewels.  But 
in  the  midst  of  all  her  trials,  Mrs.  Linden  had  never  till  now 
despaired.  Now  want,  absolute  want,  stared  her  in  the  face. 
She  had,  as  she  believed,  immolated  her  children ;  and  a  dark 
unhoping  midnight  had  settled  upon  her  prospects  and  theirs. 

The  changes  of  fortune,  common  in  America,  would  scarcely 
be  credited  by  a  dweller  in  the  old  world.  There,  men  must 
necessarily  be,  in  a  great  degree,  what  they  are  born  and  what 
their  fathers  were ;  but  here,  each  individual  takes  his  destiny 
in  his  own  hands,  and  no  human  power,  no  law  of  conven 
tionalism,  often  still  more  oppressive,  interferes  with  what  he 
wills.  It  rests  with  himself  and  the  great  Governor  whether 
he  sit  down  with  the  honorable  of  the  land,  or  droop  in  an 
almshouse,  or  crouch,  and  grovel,  and  coil  himself  in  a  kennel. 

Mr.  Linden  had  spent  his  youth  in  the  city  of  Boston, 
where,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  he  became  sole  proprietor 
of  an  extensive  mercantile  establishment.  When  in  the  full 
tide  of  prosperity  he  married  the  daughter  of  an  ex-governor 
of  his  native  state.  Soon,  however,  the  fabric  of  his  fortune 
began  to  crumble.  It  was  like  the  melting  of  a  snow  toy  in 
the  spring,  gradually  and  imperceptibly  wasting  away  until 
all  was  gone.  This  change  of  fortune  could  be  attributed 
neither  to  extravagance  nor  vice.  It  was  simply  miscalcula 
tion,  mismanagement ;  a  lack  of  energy  and  perseverance, 
joined  with  a  low  estimate  of  the  worth  of  money,  save  at  the 
moment  when  it  was  needed.  Men  said,  Mr.  Linden  had  no 


GRACE   LINDEN.  9 

business  talent.  He  struggled  a  while,  but  quite  ineffectually, 
and  then  he  gave  up  all  and  removed  to  another  state.  In  the 
interior  of  New  York,  another  effort  was  made,  but  it  was 
only  to  live  ;  and  so  year  after  year,  year  after  year  rolled  on, 
and  found  them  struggling  still. 

The  father  of  Mrs.  Linden  commenced  life  as  a  New  Eng 
land  farmer.  Without  well  considering  the  disastrous  conse 
quences  to  his  pecuniary  affairs,  (for  the  people  of  democratic 
America  are  quite  too  wise  to  support  the  honors  they  deign 
to  confer,)  he  accepted  several  offices  of  trust,  and  for  one 
term  presided  as  the  governor  of  his  native  state.  This  was 
the  death-blow  to  his  laudable  ambition;  for,  finding  his 
purse  drained,  his  land,  and  even  the  house  in  which  he  was 
born,  mortgaged,  he  declined  a  second  nomination.  His  fami 
ly  consisted  entirely  of  daughters ;  and  so,  though  his  exer 
tions  enabled  him  to  protect  them  from  want,  he  was  quite 
unable  to  afford  assistance  to  those  removed  from  his  care. 

Abby  Linden,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  immigrants, 
had  a  very  indistinct  recollection  of  large,  airy  rooms  and  ele 
gant  furniture ;  a  moment  of  terror  when  her  father  threw 
himself  upon  the  sofa  and  groaned  aloud,  while  her  mother 
wept  and  conjured  him  to  be  comforted,  was  more  strongly 
impressed  upon  her  memory.  After  events  were  spread  out 
on  her  chart  of  the  past  in  too  deep  colors  to  be  forgotten ; 
for,  when  sorrow  came,  the  child  was  made  the  mother's 
friend  and  confidante,  and  from  that  moment  she  had  never 
ceased  to  sympathize,  cheer,  and  even  advise.  Abby  had  la 
bored  too.  With  her  little  straw  bonnet  tied  closely  under  her 
chin,  and  her  basket  on  her  arm,  she  had  for  years  gone  every 
morning  to  the  low,  uncomfortable  district  school-house,  and 
won  over  the  rebellious  spirits  there  to  obey  her.  And  then, 
when  night  came,  she  would  walk  two  weary  miles ;  not  loi 
tering  under  the  solemn  old  forest  trees,  where  it  would  have 
been  her  delight  to  linger ;  but  hurrying  onward  to  perform 
another  task  with  her  needle,  and  again  another  over  her 
books,  before  she  retired  for  the  night.  But  things  were 
changed  now,  and  the  darling,  idolized  eldest  daughter,  the 


10  GRACE    LINDEN. 

companion,  the  friend,  the  all  that  a  mother's  heart  could 
desire  to  love  and  rest  upon,  was  gradually  but  surely  going 
down  to  the  dead.  Her  bright  sparkling  eye,  her  hollow  burn 
ing  cheek,  her  faltering  footsteps,  her  frail  figure,  slightly 
bended,  and  her  thin  transparent  hand,  all  told  a  tale  that  filled 
a  mother's  bosom  with  anguish.  Till  now,  what  with  the 
eldest  daughter's  little  salary  and  the  proceeds  of  the  mother's 
ever  busy  needle,  despite  the  father's  small  bargains,  by  which 
he  was  sure  to  lose  more  than  he  had  been  able  to  gain  for 
weeks  before,  the  family  had  contrived  to  live  in  comparative 
comfort.  But  now  that  poor  Abby  was  confined  within  doors, 
she  could  only  advise  and  cheer.  The  other  children  were 
yet  too  young  to  be  useful.  Francis,  a  bright  boy  of  twelve, 
and  "  the  little  girls,"  two  fair,  slender  creatures  of  eight  and 
six  years,  were  all  that  the  grave  had  left.  Small  debts  ac 
cumulated,  and  finally  credit  was  refused.  What  could  be 
done  ?  Poor  Abby  revolved  the  subject  in  her  mind  night  and 
day,  and  finally  she  ventured  to  propose  a  last  resource.  She 
told  her  mother  that  factory  labor  was  respectable  in  Amer 
ica  ;  indeed  none  but  respectable  people  could  gain  employ 
ment  in  these  establishments — there  was  light  work  in  them 
expressly  for  children  —  Frank  and  Grace  were  old  enough 
to  be  employed,  and  Lizzy  might  be  sent  to  school.  For  her 
part,  the  doctor  had  spoken  very  encouragingly  of  her  case, 
and  while  the  warm  weather  continued  she  might  make  her 
self  very  useful.  She  would  teach  Frank  and  Grace  writing 
and  arithmetic,  and  see  that  the  children's  clothes  were  in 
order,  and  possibly  she  might  be  able  to  do  a  little  extra  sew 
ing  herself.  All  this  had  cost  poor  Abby  long  nights  of 
weeping ;  for  she  had  looked  on  a  side  of  the  picture  that  she 
did  not  attempt  to  describe  ;  but  now  the  proposition  was  made 
so  cheerfully  and  confidently,  that  it  received  but  slight  oppo 
sition.  Indeed,  the  father,  from  constant  discouragement,  had 
grown  almost  indifferent ;  he  was  sure  that  fate  had  nothing 
worse  in  store  for  them ;  and  the  mother  had  been  too  much 
accustomed  to  rely  upon  the  daughter's  judgment,  to  take  a 
fair  survey  of  the  subject  until  it  was  too  late.  But  when 


GRACE    LINDEN.  11 

she  looked  on  the  long  narrow  building,  with  its  dingy  walls, 
and  doors  which  received  their  ebony  blackness  from  the  soiled 
fingers  of  the  laborers,  and  thought  of  her  tender  children 
being  immured  there  all  through  the  pleasant  summer  days 
she  had  well  nigh  preferred  beggary — beggary  in  the  open 
air,  the  fresh  green  fields,  beneath  the  broad  laughing  heav 
ens  —  to  this  life-crushing  imprisonment.  As  for  Frank,  he 
whispered  mysteriously  in  his  little  sister's  ear  of  running 
away ;  hinted  that  his  mother  was  a  very  cruel  woman  to 
shut  them  up  so ;  pouted  over  his  fishing-rod ;  examined  the 
edge  of  the  little  axe  so  well  accommodated  to  the  strength 
of  his  arm  that  he  had  been  able  to  use  it  for  several  years  ; 
and  then  boasted  of  the  mighty  exploits  he  would  perform 
when  once  free  from  his  mother's  control.  But  Grace  had  a 
heart  all  sunshine.  She  was  a  genuine  honey-gatherer,  and 
she  made  all  about  her  sip  of  the  same  flowers  with  herself. 
There  certainly  was,  she  owned,  a  something  very  prison-like 
about  the  old  factory,  "  but  then  think  of  the  ten  shillings  a 
week,  Frank  ! "  she  would  add,  triumphantly. 

"  Two  dollars,  you  mean,  Grace." 

"  Yes,  you  can  earn  two  dollars,  and  so  will  I  before  long. 
Oh,  it  is  so  nice  to  be  earning  something  for  mother  and  poor 
sister  Abby.  Don't  you  think  so,  Frank  ? " 

But  the  first  morning  that  Grace  looked  into  the  dark,  dirty 
factory,  with  its  strange  machinery,  making  noises  that  fright 
ened  and  almost  distracted  her ;  its  greasy  blackened  walls 
and  disagreeable  smells,  the  sunshine  of  her  heart  was  well- 
nigh  overshadowed.  She  clung  close  to  her  father's  hand, 
avoiding  as  much  as  was  in  her  power  a  nearer  approach  to 
the  machinery,  and  looking  askance  at  every  pillar,  as  if  she 
doubted  whether  anything  in  that  strange  place  could  remain 
stationary.  Grace  trembled  more  and  grew  still  paler  as  she 
looked  upon  the  faces  of  the  laborers.  So  many  strangers 
she  had  never  seen  together  before,  and  their  faces,  all  be- 
grimmed  with  dye  from  ofF  the  wool,  presented  features  any 
thing  but  attractive.  As  she  turned  away  and  clung  closely 
to  her  father's  arm,  a  boy  darted  before  her,  grinning  and 


GRACE    LINDEN. 

throwing  himself  into  various  attitudes,  evidently  on  purpose 
to  alarm  her. 

Oh,  that  long  deep  breath  as  she  once  more  stepped  forth 
into  the  free  air !  How  it  relieved  her !  And  then  how  her 
little  bosom  swelled,  as  she  thought  of  days,  and  weeks  and 
months,  perhaps  years  in  that  same  place !  She  looked  up 
into  her  father's  face  as  if  for  a  word  of  encouragement,  of 
hope,  but  it  was  darkened  with  gloom.  Grace  was  fright 
ened,  and  trembled  more  than  ever.  The  noise  of  the  ma 
chinery  —  the  grating,  crashing,  thundering,  were  still  in  her 
ears.  Again  she  saw  those  besmeared  faces  staring  at  her, 
and  saw  the  sickly,  yellow  light  struggling  through  windows 
dim  with  blackness,  and  oil  and  filth,  and  flaunting  with  the 
long  wreath-like  cob-webs,  hung  with  black  wool  dust,  accu 
mulated  from  that  which  constantly  filled  the  air,  she  would 
soon  be  compelled  to  breathe,  from  early  morning  to  the  set 
ting  of  the  sun.  That  first  sight  of  her  new  abode  had  cast 
a  spell  upon  her  young,  gay  spirit ;  it  had  scared  away  its 
joyousness;  and  little  Grace  Linden,  finding  the  bird-like 
melody  of  her  soul  hushed  in  gloom,  might  become  prema 
turely  old,  careworn  before  her  time.  Now,  she  hurried  away 
from  her  father  before  any  one  had  seen  her ;  and,  crouched 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  unceiled  chamber,  with  her  apron 
thrown  over  her  head,  and  her  face  resting  on  her  knees,  she 
sobbed  and  sobbed,  until  her  little  strength  yielded  to  her  first 
overpowering  grief,  and  she  found  rest  in  sleep. 

A  few  days  found  Grace  Linden  all  ready  for  her  labor ;  a 
neat  cap,  fitted  by  Abby's  careful  fingers,  confining  the  bright 
curls  that  had  been  accustomed  to  wander  freely  about  her 
shoulders,  and  a  brown  linen  apron,  reaching  from  chin  to 
ankle,  enveloping  her  graceful  little  figure.  The  child 
laughed  at  the  oddity  of  her  own  appearance,  heavy  as  her 
heart  felt  at  the  moment ;  and  Lizzy  clapped  her  little  hands 
and  outlaughed  her  sister.  Frank,  too,  joined,  half  in  vexa 
tion,  half  to  show  that  he  was  not  vexed.  Abby  smiled  en 
couragingly,  and  crushed  with  her  thin  hand  a  tear  that  was 
forcing  its  way  among  her  long,  dark  eye-iubhes ,  and  Mrs. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  13 

Linden  turned  to  the  window  and  concealed  her  face  among 
the  snowy  folds  of  muslin.  ...As  foi  .the  husband  and  father, 
he  was  none  the  less  to  be  pitied  that  he  had  neither  tears  nor 
words.  He  lacked  the  self-sustaining  power  that  to  his  wife 
and  daughter  had  been  the  gift  of  adversity.  "With  a  full 
share  of  intellectuality,  morbidly  sensitive,  yet  fully  conscious 
of  his  deficiency  in  all  the  attributes  that  make  up  the  char 
acter,  his  whole  life  had  been  but  a  continued  nightmare 
dream  —  a  striving  to  do,  while  a  dead  numbness  seemed  to 
settle  upon  every  limb  and  faculty.  Now,  unless  something 
of  importance  roused  him,  he  seemed  in  a  continued  reverie, 
utterly  regardless  of  everything  passing  around  him.  And 
this-  was  a  moment  when  the  whole  past,  the  present,  and  the 
dark,  dark  future,  all  together,  stared  him  in  the  face.  He 
could  not  bear  it ;  and  for  a  whole  week  did  he  shut  himself 
in  his  room  refusing  to  admit  even  the  gentle  Abby  to  console 
him.  At  first,  Grace  thought  her  work  very  easy ;  and  the 
ambition  consequent  upon  learning  something  new,  made  her 
forget  to  look  at  the  walls  that  had  so  much  inspired  her  hor 
ror.  A  long,  low  table  was  behind,  covered  with  a  cloth, 
which,  by  rollers  at  each  end,  was  kept  creeping  slowly  on 
ward  with  its  light  layer  of  woollen  rolls.  These,  Grace  was 
to  take  up  by  handfuls  and  fasten,  one  by  one,  to  the  ends  of 
those  extending  down  an  inclined  plane  before  her,  covered  in 
the  same  manner  with  a  moveable  cloth.  These  rolls,  in 
their  turn,  were  fastened  to  spindles  behind  the  plane,  and  a 
man,  with  a  low  forehead,  small  peering  eyes,  and  a  bushy 
beard  quite  innocent  of  clipping,  turned  a  crank,  at  the  same 
time  walking  backward,  until  the  wool  was  drawn  out  into  a 
thick  thread,  afterwards  to  be  spun  into  a  finer  one.  Grace 
had  no  opportunity  to  falter  in  her  task ;  for  the  man  kept  up 
his  steady  monotonous  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  —  turn,  turn,  turn, 
until  her  little  head  grew  giddy,  and  she  found  a  moment's 
pause  to  mend  a  broken  thread,  an  inconceivable  relief.  The 
boy,  too,  whose  grimaces  had  so  frightened  her  on  the  day  of 
her  first  visit,  was  close  beside  her,  supplying  the  carding  ma 
chine  with  wool ;  and  he  seemed  inclined  to  take  advantage  of 
2 


14  GRACE    LINDEN. 

her  timidity,  thrusting  his  hideous  face,  marked  as  it  was  with 
black,  before  her  at  every  opportunity. 

Oh,  how  her  heart  leaped  when  the  heavy  strokes  of  the 
dinner-bell  sounded  from  the  belfry,  and  all  the  machinery 
stopped  in  an  instant !  And  how  bewildered  she  seemed  at 
the  strange  silence,  till  some  half  dozen  persons  about  her 
burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter !  Then  Frank  came  and  took 
her  by  the  hand,  and  they  hurried  home  together,  so  delighted 
with  the  moment's  respite  that  Mrs.  Linden  was  delighted  too, 
and  thought  the  poor  children  might  be  happy  after  all.  But 
the  afternoon  —  oh,  how  long  it  was !  Grace  thought  it 
would  never  end.  Her  little  fingers,  from  constant  rubbing 
their  backs  upon  the  rolls  to  fasten  them  together,  began  to 
bleed ;  her  head  felt  like  bursting,  for  it  seemed  as  though  the 
machinery  was  constantly  grating  against  her  brain ;  and  her 
feet  ached  till  she  thought  the  bones  had  certainly  perforated 
the  flesh.  That  night,  poor  Abby  kissed  and  carefully  bound 
up  the  wounded  fingers,  and  took  the  little  feet  soothingly  be 
tween  her  hands,  and  talked  of  brighter  days,  and  sung  with 
her  faint,  soft  voice,  little  hymns,  until,  ill  able  as  she  was  to 
bear  the  weight,  the  child  nestled  in  her  bosom,  and  slept  as 
only  those  who  love  and  labor  can. 

Week  after  week  passed  by,  and  though  little  Grace  Lin 
den's  feet  ached  less,  her  heart  ached  more.  Dick  Grouse, 
the  malicious  machine-tender,  became  an  object  of  absolute 
terror  to  her ;  it  seemed  his  delight  to  torment  her  by  every 
means  in  his  power ;  and  though  the  man  turning  the  crank 
often  defended  her,  it  did  not  lessen  her  fears.  She  trembled 
when  he  looked  at  her  during  the  day,  and  at  night  dreamed 
that  he  was  an  evil  spirit  dragging  her  away  from  her  mother 
and  Abby,  to  a  place  of  horrible  darkness.  The  trees  bud 
ded  and  leaved;  flowers  bloomed  and  faded,  leaving  their 
places  to  brighter  flowers  still ;  the  brooks  frolicked  and  jostled 
their  tiny  drops  together ;  and  the  birds  answered  back  from 
ten  thousand  fresh  green  coverts  with  startling  bursts  of  glad- 
someness.  All  this  passed,  and  Grace  Linden,  the  darling 
little  woodland  fairy,  that  might  have  claimed  the  flowers  as 


GRACE    LINDEN.  15 

sisters,  and  the  birds  as  chatty  friends  and  playmates,  scarce 
looked  upon  the  laughing  sunlight.  True,  on  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  she  was  free  two  hours  before  sunset ;  free  as  the 
winds  of  heaven  and  almost  as  wild.  She  laughed,  and  sang, 
and  shouted,  and  laughed  again,  to  catch  the  ringing  echo  of 
her  own  voice,  as  its  music  was  caught  up  and  prolonged  by 
the  bold  bluff  just  over  the  river.  Then  she  would  fling  her 
self  upon  the  turf,  and  nestle  close  to  the  ground  to  smell  its 
freshness  ;  and  at  last,  when  the  hour  for  returning  homeward 
could  be  no  longer  delayed,  she  would  load  her  little  arms 
with  all  that  was  green,  and  beautiful,  and  fraught  with  life, 
because  sister  Abby,  too,  loved  the  things  of  summer.  But 
Grace  grew  pale  and  thoughtful.  A  sensation  of  heaviness, 
as  though  neither  mind  nor  body  had  strength  to  support  its 
own  weight,  crept  over  her.  She  was  sad,  as  though  some 
great  sorrow  had  passed  above  her  and  left  an  immoveable 
shadow.  August  came,  with  its  warm,  sultry  days,  and 
brought  no  relief.  It  had  now  become  a  habit  with  Grace  to 
droop  her  eyelids  heavily  upon  her  wan  cheek,  as  though  she 
would  thus  shut  away  the  pain  from  her  temples ;  and  when 
ever  her  hand  was  at  liberty,  to  press  it  against  her  side. 
Poor  Grace ! 

One  morning,  as  little  Grace  Linden  happened  to  glance 
upward  from  her  work,  she  observed  a  fine,  spirited  boy  of 
some  fourteen  summers  watching  her  languid  motions  with 
an  air  of  interest.  He  went  away  on  being  observed;  but 
his  tour  through  the  cleaner  and  pleasanter  rooms  above,  was 
soon  made,  and  he  returned  to  the  carding-room.  He  looked 
around  and  whistled  a  little,  and  approached  the  quarter  where 
Grace  stood,  by  studied  evolutions.  But  once  there,  he  could 
not  well  be  accused  of  that  most  unboyish  of  all  traits,  bash- 
fulness. 

"  I  say,  Sliggins,"  he  called  out,  authoritatively,  "  why  don't 
you  stop  that  tramp  and  let  this  little  girl  have  a  minute's 
rest  ?  "  The  man  at  the  crank  gave  a  knowing  wink  with 
the  left  eye,  and  jogged  on  as  before,  while  Grace  cast  a  look 
of  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  gratitude  on  the  daring  intruder, 


16  GRACE    LINDEN. 

That  look  was  quite  enough  for  the  boy,  for,  without  waiting 
a  farther  consultation,  he  marched  direct  to  the  carding-ma- 
chine  and  threw  the  band  from  the  wheel. 

"  There,  Sliggins  !  Look'ee,  Mr.  Machine-tender,  you  will 
be  glad  of  a  rest,  I  dare  say,  so  snuggle  down  on  the  wool, 
and  mind  you  sleep  fast,  my  boy."  Dick  Grouse  leered  at 
Grace  over  his  shoulder,  and  drawing  near,  whispered  some 
thing  that  made  her  utter  a  suppressed  scream  of  terror; 
then,  dancing  for  a  moment  with  malicious  satisfaction,  and 
rubbing  his  hands  gleefully,  he  betook  himself  to  a  pile  of 
wool. 

"  Rest !  Oh,  yes,  Master  Hal,  rest  never  comes  amiss  to 
factory  folks ;  but  your  father  moughn't  like  it  quite  so  well," 
said  Sliggins,  good-naturedly,  at  the  same  time  seating  him 
self  on  a  roll  of  satinet  and  resting  both  elbows  on  his 
knees.  Without  paying  any  attention  to  this  answer,  Henry 
Russel  busied  himself  with  arranging  a  comfortable  seat  for 
Grace ;  who,  without  knowing  whether  to  be  grateful  or  not 
for  a  display  of  power  characteristic  of  the  boy,  even  though 
for  her  benefit,  mechanically  availed  herself  of  his  officious- 
ness. 

"  Is  your  name  Grace  ?  "  inquired  the  boy,  "  is  that  what 
Sliggins  called  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Grace  —  Grace  —  Gracey !  that 's  it !  that 's  a  pretty  nick 
name  !  I  like  nick-names,  don't  you  ?  " 

Grace  was  not  quite  sure,  for  she  had  always  thought  nick 
names  were  something  bad ;  but  she  was  certain  that  Gracey 
was  not  bad;  and  then  she  thought  of  Abby,  and  Frank, 
and  Lizzy,  and  she  said  "  Yes,"  again. 

"  Then  you  must  call  me  Harry,  or  Hal,  or  Hank  —  though 
I  think  Harry  a  little  the  prettiest  for  a  girl  to  speak,  don't 
you?" 

Again  Grace  said  "  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  here  all  the  vacation  —  six  weeks;  and 
I  '11  come  down  every  day  and  stop  the  machine,  and  make 
Sliggins  give  you  a  rest.  Would  n't  you  like  that,  Gracey  ?  " 


GRACE    LINDEN.  17 

Grace  felt  like  saying  yes,  again,  and  blessing  this  vvonder- 
ous  magician  with  all  her  heart ;  but  she  remarked,  instead, 
"  Mr.  Sliggins  said  your  father  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Poh  !  he  likes  everything  that  I  do  —  for,  you  see,  I  don't 
come  home  but  once  a  year,  and  then  it  would  n't  become  him 
to  be  cross  to  me." 

Grace  thought  it  would  n't  become  anybody  to  be  cross  to 
such  a  good-natured  boy ;  and,  as  this  thought  was  coming 
up  from  her  heart,  (the  source  of  little  girls'  thoughts,)  she 
could  not  avoid  a  glance  towards  the  quarter  where  the  two 
eyes  of  Dick  Grouse  were  peering  out  from  the  wool  —  and 
then  she  shuddered  and  involuntarily  drew  near  her  new 
friend.  Harry  had  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and 
remarked  the  shudder. 

"  I  don't  think  that 's  a  very  good  boy,  Gracey  ?" 

Grace  made  no  answer,  but  she  stole  another  glance  at  the 
wool-pile. 

"  Halloo  there,  fellow ! "  shouted  Harry,  "  turn  your  big 
starers  the  other  way,  if  you  can't  shut  them." 

"  Oh  don't,  don't ! "  whispered  Grace,  seizing  his  wrist  in 
alarm.  "  He  's  a  dreadful  boy,  Harry,  and  I  don't  know  what 
he  would  do  if  you  should  make  him  angry  ! " 

Harry  only  laughed  and  shouted  still  louder,  "  Do  you  hear, 
Blackey?" 

Dick  dropped  his  head,  and  Grace,  evidently  relieved,  inter 
posed  :  "  He  can't  help  getting  black  in  this  dirty  place ;  but 
if  he  would  n't  mark  that  black  ring  around  his  eyes,  and 
make  up  such  awful  faces,  and  tell  me  such  horrible  stories, 
too." 

"  He  's  a  bad  boy,  Gracey,  I  know  he  is,  and  I  '11  tell  father 
all  about  it  —  he  will  make  him  walk  straight.  Father  will 
employ  nobody  that  is  not  good ;  for  he  says  that  would  make 
factories  in  this  country  almost  as  bad  as  they  are  in  England. 
He  shall  hear  all  about  this  mean  Dick  Grouse ;  and  then,  if 
the  fellow  don't  look  out,  he  will  have  to  clear.  To  think  of 
his  being  hateful  to  you,  and  you  so  nice  and  good ! " 

"  Oh,  no!  he  don't  do  anything  to  me  —  anything  much, 
2* 


18  GRACE    LINDEN. 

I  mean.  Mr.  Sliggins  will  not  let  him  strike  me  any  more, 
and  he  says  he  shall  not  pinch  me  and  pull  my  hair,  but  Dick 
does  that  so  slily  that  nobody  finds  him  out." 

"Why  don't  you  tell?" 

"  It  scared  me  dreadfully  to  see  him  and  Mr.  Sliggins  quar 
rel,  and  it  makes  Dick  tell  me  worse  stories  when  nobody 
hears  him.  Oh  !  I  would  rather  have  him  pinch  me  —  ten 
times  rather,  than  hear  those  terrible  things !  they  make  me 
dream  so  badly.  I  wish  you  tended  the  machine,  Harry  —  I 
don't  mean  I  wish  you  were  poor  and  had  to  do  it,  but  it 
would  be  very  nice  to  have  some  one  here  that  was  kind  and 
good-natured  all  the  time." 

Harry  thought  it  would  be  very  nice,  too,  and  almost  wished 
that  his  father  would  let  him  leave  school  for  the  purpose. 
Grace,  however,  assured  him  that  she  would  rather  have  the 
company  of  bad  Dick  Grouse,  than  that  he  should  do  such  a 
thing.  To  this,  Harry  responded  very  generously;  and  so  a 
half  hour  passed  in  just  the  most  agreeable  and  childish  chat 
in  the  world.  At  the  end  of  this  time,  Harry  started  up  with 
a  loud  "  hurrah  ! "  threw  the  belt  upon  the  wheel  of  the  ma 
chine  ;  buried  Dick  Grouse  in  the  wool ;  gave  the  roll  of 
cloth  a  push,  which  made  Sliggins  turn  a  quite  unintentional 
somerset;  and  then,  with  a  hearty  laugh,  in  which  Grace 
joined  quite  as  heartily,  and  Sliggins  uproariously,  took  an 
abrupt  departure. 

The  next  morning,  true  to  his  promise,  Harry  Kussel  was 
at  the  factory  ;  but  he  told  Grace  that  his  father  was  not  quite 
pleased  with  his  stopping  the  machine,  and  so  he  would  do  a 
better  thing  than  that.  She  should  teach  him  to  splice  the 
rolls,  and  he  would  help  her  all  day.  "  But  why  do  you 
work  in  the  factory  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking  into  her  face  very 
earnestly.  "If  it  were  not  for  that  ugly  cap  and  this  queer 
apron  you  would  be  very  pretty." 

Grace  thought  the  cap  that  sister  Abby  made  could  n't  be 
ugly,  and  she  said  so.  Harry  admitted  that  it  looked  well 
enough ;  but  he  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  curls  peeping  out 
at  the  side,  and  they  looked  much  better. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  19 

"  But  why,"  he  continued,  pertinaciously,  "  why  do  you 
work  in  the  factory,  Gracey  ?  To  be  sure  I  think  it  is  about 
as  good  as  moping  in  the  corner,  the  way  most  girls  do ;  but 
don't  you  like  running  in  the  fields  and  hunting  birds'  nests, 
and  would a't  you  like  to  see  me  fish,  Gracey?" 

Grace  couAd  not  answer.  She  was  choking  with  tears ; 
for  she  thought  of  the  summer  previous,  when  she  had  tripped 
it  by  Frank's  side  along  the  borders  of  the  brook,  wallowed 
in  the  rich  clover,  made  little  bouquets  of  the  field  daisy  and 
queen  of  the  meadow,  and  tested  fortune  by  holding  the  but 
tercup  beneath  her  brother's  chin.  Harry's  words  had  recalled 
all  this ;  and  the  tears  came  crowding  into  her  eyes,  and  her 
head  drooped  upon  her  bosom,  until  she  was  startled  by  an 
angry  exclamation  from  Sliggins. 

"  Poh,  Sliggins ! "  said  the  merry  voice  of  Harry,  "  never 
mind  if  a  few  rolls  did  run  in !  It  will  rest  your  arm  to 
mend  them.  You  needn't  look  so  cross,  old  fellow!  Only 
wait  a  little,  and  Gracey  and  I  will  keep  you  jogging ! " 

As  Harry  grew  more  expert  in  his  new  business,  the  two 
children  had  more  time  for  talking ;  and  at  last  he  succeeded 
in  extracting  from  Grace  the  cause  of  her  working  in  the 
factory.  He  declared  it  a  sin  and  a  shame,  that  all  people,  at 
least  all  good  people,  couldn't  have  just  as  much  money  as 
they  wanted.  As  for  Grace,  she  should  have  the  ten  shillings 
a  week,  and  she  should  not  work  either.  He  would  speak  to 
his  father  about  it  that  very  day,  for  his  father  was  a  good 
man  and  had  oceans  of  money.  Then  they  would  have  rare 
times,  for  he  assured  her,  in  confidence,  that  the  girls  at  Fac 
tory  Huddle  were  just  the  stupidest  set  he  ever  saw;  and 
there  was  not  one  that  knew  what  fun  meant  but  her. 

This  was  a  happy  day  for  Grace ;  she  had  been  assisted, 
and  amused,  and  encouraged  ;  indeed,  she  had  quite  forgotten 
to  count  the  hours,  and  was  comparatively  but  slightly 
fatigued.  But  better  than  all,  Dick  Grouse,  though  there  was 
a  world  of  malice  in  his  eye,  had  not  ventured  to  play  her  a 
single  trhk  since  morning,  when  Harry  had  duly  punished 


20  GRACE    LINDEN. 

him  for  an  attempt  at  one;  and  for  this  she  was  grateful 
to  her  new  champion  in  proportion  to  her  former  fears. 

The  next  morning  Harry  Kussel  appeared  full  half  an  hour 
earlier  than  on  the  preceding  day,  bringing  with  him  a  little 
package  of  linen,  which  he  said  was  to  be  made  into  an  apron 
like  the  one  Grace  wore.  His  soiled  cuffs  and  collar  had 
given  his  mother  an  inkling  of  his  new  occupation ;  but  when 
Grace  suggested  that  it  was  wrong  to  come  there  at  all  in 
opposition  to  his  mother's  wishes,  he  laughed  outright. 
"  Mother  never  minds  what  I  do,"  said  he,  "  unless  I  get  into 
what  she  calls  bad  company.  To  think  of  your  being  bad 
company,  Gracey !  She  laughs  at  my  tricks  at  school  with 
the  rich  boys,  but  if  I  have  anything  to  say  to  the  poor  ones, 
she  scolds  me  and  teases  father  about  it  from  morning  till 
night.  Oh !  it  is  rare  fun  to  get  into  company  with  some  of 
these  ragamuffins,  and  make  her  believe  I  like  them.  But 
then  I  suppose  it  is  wrong  to  plague  her ;  if  you  think  so, 
Grace,  I  '11  never  do  it  any  more,  even  if  she  is  queer." 

Grace  assured  him  that  it  was  very  wrong ;  but  still  she 
was  sure  she  was  not  bad  company,  and  pouted  very  prettily 
upon  the  occasion,  till  Harry  assured  her  he  would  stay  at  the 
factory  all  the  time,  just  to  show  that  he  dared  do  it.  Then 
she  begged  of  him  not  to  disobey  his  mother,  and  intimated 
that  she  was  not  quite  sure  of  its  being  right  for  her  to  make 
the  apron  at  all. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Gracey ! "  cried  the  boy,  opening  his 
eyes  wide  in  astonishment,  "  my  mother  never  approves  of 
anything.  I  am  sure  I  never  obeyed  her  a  half  dozen  times 
in  my  life.  Why,  don't  you  know  she 's  a  lady,  a  real  fine 
lady,  and  not  a  sensible  woman,  like  your  mother,  Grace? 
I  'm  sure  I  should  always  obey  your  mother." 

"  But  your  father,  Harry  ?" 

"  Oh !  father  says  it  don't  hurt  boys  to  work  at  anything. 
He  gave  me  the  stuff  for  the  apron,  and  told  me  to  get  my 
pretty  little  Gracey  (mind,  he  called  you  my  Gracey)  to 
make  it." 

Grace  doubted  whether  she  should  be  able  to  accomplish 


GRACE    LINDEN.  21 

such  afeat ;  but  as  Harry  declared  that  his  Gracey  must  know 
how  to  do  everything,  she  promised  to  try.  Poor  Grace ! 
Little  did  she  know  what  she  had  promised ;  for  though  she 
was  very  well  versed  in  over  and  over  seams,  and  could,  upon 
a  pinch,  hem  a  pocket  handkerchief,  cutting  out  work  was 
quite  out  of  her  line.  Little  girls  are  mimic  women,  and 
Grace  was  a  complete  little  girl,  with  all  the  sensibilities,  the 
refinements,  and  pretty  little  concealments  that  characterize 
the  sex ;  so  instead  of  going  to  her  sister  with  the  apron,  and 
talking  frankly  of  her  new  friend,  as  Harry  had  done  of  her, 
she  stole  away  to  her  chamber  and  tried  to  cut  one  apron  by 
the  other ;  measured  and  re-measured,  made  mistakes  and 
rectified  them ;  but  never  gave  up  the  task  till  she  could  pro 
nounce  the  garment  in  some  degree  shapely.  Then  Grace 
begged  a  tallow  candle  from  her  mother,  and  plied  her  needle 
all  alone  till  far  into  the  night.  The  next  morning  she  was 
up  with  the  first  grey  dawn,  singing  gaily  as  she  worked ; 
and  right  proud  was  she  to  fold  the  apron  in  her  pocket  hand 
kerchief  and  bound  away  to  the  factory  at  the  very  moment 
the  bell  called.  Oh,  beautiful  was  the  light  in  the  little  girl's 
eyes  when  Harry  Russel  appeared  that  morning,  though  she 
tried  to  look  unusually  demure ;  and  beautiful  the  dimples 
that  would  trip  it  across  her  pale  face  in  spite  of  her  assumed 
soberness.  As  for  Harry,  he  ranted  in  his  new  dress  like  a 
stage  player,  and  stalked  about  in  a  manner  that  Grace  thought 
excessively  amusing,  quite  forgetful  of  his  self-imposed  duty, 
till  he  saw  the  little  girl  press  her  hand  against  her  side. 

Day  after  day  passed  by,  and  Harry  was  still  at  his  post,  as 
sympathetic,  and  vigorous,  and  noisy  as  ever.  Although  he 
had  somewhat  overrated  his  influence  with  his  father,  when 
he  promised  Grace  the  wages  without  the  work,  his  complaints 
of  the  machine-tender  received  more  attention.  Mr.  Russel 
investigated  the  matter  with  promptitude;  and,  as  Sliggins 
brought  several  other  charges  against  him,  he  was  at  once 
dismissed,  and  Francis  Linden,  as  a  special  favor  to  himself 
and  sister,  was  allowed  to  take  his  place.  On  the  evening  of 
the  day  on  which  Dick  Grouse  was  discharged,  as  Grace  sat 


22  GRACE    LINDEN. 

alone  in  Abby's  little  room,  she  was  startled  by  a  rustling  of 
the  vines  at  the  window.  She  raised  her  head  and  caught 
sight  of  the  face  of  her  tormenter  peering  at  her  through  the 
opening.  Grace  screamed  and  started  to  her  feet,  while  the 
face  kept  moving  slowly  forward  until  half  of  the  body  was 
within  the  room.  Grace  could  not  scream  again,  and  the  boy 
probably  thought  he  had  alarmed  her  sufficiently ;  for,  shaking 
his  c.enched  fist,  and  declaring  that  he  would  remember  the 
work  of  that  day  forever  and  ever,  and  pay  her  for  it,  and 
Harry  Russel  too,  he  drew  himself  back  and  darted  out  of 
sight. 

A  dear,  sweet  respite  was  that  vacation  for  little  Grace  Lin 
den,  and  when  it  was  passed,  and  Harry  had  returned  to 
school,  the  fruits  of  his  kindness  still  remained ;  for  her  brother 
was  close  beside  her,  and  his  cheering  voice,  rising  with  diffi 
culty  above  the  noise  of  the  machinery,  beguiled  many  a 
wearisome  hour.  But  a  cloud  was  destined  to  eclipse  even 
this  faint  glimmer  of  sunshine.  The  first  autumnal  frost  fell 
like  a  blight  upon  the  frail  form  of  Abby ;  and  she  drooped 
with  the  flowers  that  she  had  loved  in  summer  time.  Oh, 
never  was  there  a  being  more  loved,  more  cherished,  more 
idolized  than  she  who  was  now  stricken  !  Never  were  raised 
prayers  more  fervent,  more  wildly  agonized  than  those  which 
broke  from  the  bursting  hearts  that  gathered  around  her  bed ; 
and  yet  she  died.  They  buried  her  before  the  November  days 
came  on,  deep  in  the  quiet  earth,  where  the  bleak  winds  could 
not  reach  her,  and  where  she  might  rest  on  her  cold,  damp 
pillow,  undisturbed  by  the  busy  thoughts  that  scared  away  her 
rest  while  living.  Sorrow  made  the  mother  sharp-sighted, 
and  she  now  detected  the  strong  resemblance  between  her  liv 
ing  eldest  daughter  and  the  dead.  The  high  fair  forehead, 
with  the  blue  veins  crossing  it,  the  large  meek  eyes,  the  thin 
pale  cheek,  the  sharpened  chin,  all  were  the  same  that  had 
once  been  Abby's ;  and  this  same  paleness  and  thinness,  and 
sharpness  of  outline,  had  been  the  marks  of  disease,  imme 
diately  preceding  the  preternatural  brightness  which  had  for  a 
long  time  been  effectually  deceptive.  Grace's  ten  shillings 


GRACE    LINDEN.  23 

could  be  dispensed  with  now ;  the  mother  did  not  say  it,  for  it 
seemed  sacrilege  to  accept  of  a  relief  which  death  had 
brought ;  but  she  insisted  on  removing  back  to  her  dear  beau 
tiful  Alderbrook,  and  living  as  they  best  could.  Behold  them, 
then,  in  the  humble  cottage  which  they  had  left  six  months 
previous ;  the  mother  and  little  girls  busy  with  their  needles, 
Frank  apprenticed  to  a  country  printer,  and  Mr.  Linden  deep 
in  a  job  of  copying,  which  he  had  been  lucky  er.<ciugh  to 
obtain  on  his  arrival. 

CHAPTER   II. EIGHTEEN. 

IT  was  a  fresh,  bright  August  morning,  and  a  group  of 
young  girls  had  collected  in  the  hall  and  on  the  portico  of  a 
fine  large  building  in  one  of  our  principal  cities.  There  was 
a  wreathing  of  pretty  arms,  a  fluttering  of  muslins,  a  waving 
of  curls,  and  a  flashing  of  bright  eyes,  peculiarly  fascinating 
to  any  one  (could  such  an  individual  be  found)  failing  to  share 
in  the  popular  disgust  felt  toward  "bread-and-butter  misses." 
A  carriage  stood  at  the  door,  and  a  fair  girl,  graceful  as  a 
drooping  willow,  and  strangely,  spiritually  beautiful,  equipped 
for  travelling,  was  yet  detained  by  the  gay  throng  about  her. 

"  Nay,  one  more  kiss,  Gracey,  dear,"  said  a  bright  little 
creature,  bending  her  neck,  and  putting  up  a  pair  of  fresh,  red 
lips,  with  the  daintiness  of  a  bird ;  "  don't  forget  me,  darling ! " 

"  And  remember  me  ! "  exclaimed  another,  balancing  on 
her  toes  to  peep  over  her  neighbor's  shoulder. 

"  Pensez  a  ?noi,  ma  chcre  amie"  responded  the  tall  neigh 
bor,  with  an  attempt  at  tune  and  melody  that  elicited  two  or 
three  ringing  laughs. 

"  Good-bye,  Gracey,  dear  ! " 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  darling ! " 

"  Be  sure  you  are  back  the  first  of  the  term  !  " 

"  Take  care,  Gracey  !    don't  lose  your  veil ! " 

"  Nor  your  heart,  either ! " 

"  Keep  a  sharp  look-out  for  —  you  understand,  Gracey  ! " 

"  Regardez !  —  now  behind  the  pillar !     Look,  Grace !   he 
he!" 


24  GRACE  LINDEN. 

These  were  only  a  few  of  the  exclamations  rising  above  a 
Babel  of  sounds,  such  as  only  school-girls  —  and  those  very 
chatty  school-girls  —  can  produce. 

"  Good-bye  !  au  revoir ! "  answered  Grace ;  and,  jumping 
into  the  carriage,  she  wafted  back  kisses  on  her  gloved  hand, 
answered  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs  by  allowing  her  own 
to  stream  out  a  moment  on  the  air,  and  then  disappeared 
around  a  corner. 

And  this  was  Grace  Linden  —  the  pale,  sad  little  girl,  who 
had  spliced  rolls  away  in  the  dismal  factory  —  now  a  beauti 
ful  creature,  in  the  full  pride  of  maidenhood.  She,  who  had 
been  deemed  an  unfit  associate  for  the  son  of  a  manufacturer, 
stood  on  a  perfect  equality  with  the  refined  and  highly-bred 
daughters  of  the  proudest  families  America  can  boast.  What 
change,  will  be  asked,  had  come  over  the  Lindens?  Had 
they  become  suddenly  possessed  of  an  immense  fortune  ?  or  had 
some  wealthy  friend,  in  compliment  to  the  young  girl's  evi 
dent  superiority,  taken  upon  himself  the  pleasant  task  of  edu 
cating  her  ?  Neither.  Mr.  Linden  made  bargains,  as  usual ; 
and  Mrs.  Linden  plied  her  needle ;  Frank  had  become  a  part 
ner  in  the  printing  establishment  where  he  was  apprenticed, 
and  was  flourishing  away,  with  the  least  of  all  little  capitals,  as 
a  country  editor ;  and  Lizzy  was  teaching  a  school  of  young 
misses  at  Alderbrook.  Nothing  unusual  had  occurred,  but 
all  had  been  busy  —  Grace  quite  as  much  so  as  the  others. 
The  struggle  was  not  now  what  it  had  formerly  been ;  for  all 
were  able  to  help  themselves.  Women  often  atone  for  their 
d  3ficiency  of  muscular  power,  by  making  capital  of  the  brain; 
and  Grace  Linden  early  learned  that  her  hand  could  be  no 
sure  dependence.  She  therefore  followed  the  example  of 
Abby,  and  gathered  a  little  school  about  her ;  but  she  had  not 
poor  Abby's  drawbacks,  and  all  her  efforts  were  prospered. 
Mrs.  Linden  and  Lizzy  were  adepts  with  the  needJe,  and 
Frank,  now  and  then,  threw  an  extra  dollar,  which  economy 
multiplied  to  a  dozen,  into  the  general  fund ;  and  so  the  family 
lived  respectably  and  comfortably.  But  there  had  been  a  time 
when  Grace  had  learned  to  think,  and  thought  once  busied 


GRACE    LINDEN.  25 

will  never  leave  the  heart  till  death.  Ay,  the  heart — for 
thence  proceed  the  weightiest  thoughts.  She  was  not  a 
schemer,  but  she  looked  at  the  present  and  into  the  future ; 
she  regarded  her  mother's  pale  cheek  and  her  father's  sad 
countenance,  and  resolved  to  leave  nothing  undone  to  render 
their  age  easy  and  happy.  It  was  for  this  that  she  had 
taught,  and  studied  far  into  the  night,  and  laid  by  her  little 
savings  with  almost  miserly  care,  until,  at  eighteen,  she  had 
raised  a  sum  large  enough  to  place  her  in  a  boarding-school 
of  the  highest  character.  She  entered  only  for  one  year,  for 
she  had  already,  by  her  own  unassisted  efforts,  laid  the  foun 
dation,  and  almost  built  up  the  superstructure  of  a  superior 
education.  Half  of  that  year  had  passed ;  and  oh  !  how  hap 
py  was  the  young  student  to  meet  her  friends,  after  that  first 
wearisome  separation !  It  was  a  very  humble  home  to  which 
Grace  Linden  repaired  to  spend  her  vacation,  but  a  very  sweet 
and  pleasant  one,  nevertheless.  Holy  affections  consecrated 
it ;  and  so  happy  was  Grace  that  she  thought  not  a  moment 
of  her  companions,  treading  on  soft  carpets  and  lounging  on 
rich  sofas,  receiving  splendid  presents  and  enjoying  costly 
amusements.  Her  mother's  eye  beamed  lovingly  upon  her  ; 
her  sister's  arm  encircled  her  waist ;  her  brother  strewed  her 
table  with  the  books  marked  by  his  own  pencil,  and  fresh 
flowers  cultivated  by  his  own  care ;  and  her  father  followed 
her  dreamily  about,  in  pride  and  wonder,  and  seemed  almost 
happy. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Grace  and  Lizzy,  notwithstanding 
their  humble  circumstances,  had  gathered  about  them  a  little 
company  of  friends  and  companions,  and  these,  on  the  return 
of  the  elder  sister,  flew  to  welcome  her ;  and  walks,  and 
drives,  and  picnics  became  quite  the  order  of  the  day  among 
the  young  people  of  Alderbrook. 

"  An  old  friend  of  yours  proposed  calling  on  you  this  even 
ing,  Gracey,"  said  Frank,  one  day,  "  and  mind,  my  lady,  to 
have  on  your  very  prettiest  face,  and  make  your  very  prettiest 
speeches ;  for,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  you  will  be  the  first 
feme  sole  in  town  to  be  so  highly  honored." 
3 


26  GRACE    LINDEN. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Grace,  stitching  away  on  her  wrist-band  with 
the  most  unconcerned  manner  in  the  world. 

"  '  Ah  ! '  you  would  say  something  more  than  «  ah,1  if  you 
knew  what  an  object  of  envy  you  will  be  to  all  the  misses 
and  mammas  in  the  village.  Here  's  our  mother  now ;  her 
imagination  will  be  striding  off  in  seven-league  boots,  the 
minute  she  hears  the  name." 

"  Mother  guesses  the  name,"  said  Mrs.  Linden,  .glancing 
up  from  her  work  archly,  "  but  she  will  leave  the  romancing 
to  younger  heads." 

"  A  truce  to  your  mysteries  ! "  exclaimed  Grace,  "  who  is 
this  wonderfnl  personage  ?  Come,  I  am  prepared  for  any 
announcement.  Is  he  an  Indian  nabob  ?  or  a  German  prince  ?  " 

"  You  recollect  the  Russels,  Grace?" 

"  The  Kussels !  yes ;  or  one  of  them  at  least.  Dear,  kind, 
generous  Harry  Russel !  I  shall  recollect  him  as  long  as  I 
live ! " 

"  Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! "  laughed  Frank,  "  that  is  a  good  one, 
Grace !  Generous  and  kind  enough  is  this  Russel,  for  aught 
I  know;  but  —  ho!  ho!  the  boldness  of  young  ladies,  no w-a- 
days,  is  unparalleled  !  don't  you  think  so,  mother  ?  Imagine 
Grace,  with  that  demure  face,  saying  '  dear  Harry  Russel,'  of 
a  stately  six-footer,  so  handsome  as  to  turn  every  girl's  head 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  so  proud  as  never  to  give  them  even 
a  smile  to  make  amends !  Why,  Grace,  do  you  think  every 
body  stands  still  but  your  own  womanly  little  self?  There  's 
no  such  little  boy  as  Harry  Russel,  now  ;  but  there  's  a  '  Hen 
ry  J.  Russel,  Esq.,  Att'y.  at  Law,  &c.,  &c.,'  and  a  fine,  noble 
fellow  he  is,  too." 

"  I  had  much  rather  see  the  gallant  little  Harry  of  yo~e, ' 
said  Grace,  with  a  decrease  of  animation.  "  Does  this  Rus 
sel  visit  here  ?  " 

"Of  course  not.  He  visits  nowhere  but  among  his  legal 
brethren ;  and  so  you  have  reason  to  feel  wonderfully  nattered, 
you  see." 

"  But  did  this  proud  man,  that  it  seems  I  shall  not  like  at 
all,  call  himself  an  old  friend,  Frank  ? " 


GRACE    LINDEN.  27 

"  Oh,  no !  he  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  make  an  allu 
sion  that  he  was  not  quite  sure  would  be  pleasant.  He  is  in 
the  habit  of  coming  into  the  office  every  day,  so  we  are  no 
strangers ;  and  this  morning  he  made  very  particular  inqui 
ries  after  you,  mentioned  having  met  you  once  at  Mrs.  Som- 
mers',  when  he  was  there,  three  or  four  years  ago,  and 
expressed  a  desire  to  renew  the  acquaintance.  Of  course,  I 
wculd  throw  nothing  in  the  way  of  '  dear  Harry  Russel ;' 
and  ill  I  have  to  say  now,  is,  look  your  prettiest." 

But  Frank  was  obliged  to  say  much  more ;  for  Grace  had 
a  hundred  questions  to  ask  about  the  Russels,  of  whom  she 
had  not  heard  for  the  last  two  years.  A  year  or  two  after  the 
Lindens  abandoned  their  scheme  of  factory  labor,  Mr.  JRussel 
had  turned  his  attention  to  a  different  branch  of  business,  and 
consequently  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York.  The  acci 
dental  meeting  of  Harry  and  Grace  at  the  house  of  a  mutual 
friend,  some  time  after,  had  been  extremely  embarrassing 
for  both  ;  they  were  just  of  that  awkward  age  when  we  poor 
foolish  mortals  learn  to  be  ashamed  of  frankness  and  simplici 
ty,  and  are  too  unpractised  to  appear  at  ease  under  the  mask 
we  choose  to  assume.  Grace  now  learned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Russel  were  both  dead ;  and  that  the  wealth,  on  which  the 
mother  had  so  prided  herself,  had  passed  with  them.  The 
son,  thus  deprived  of  the  fine  fortune  that  he  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  consider  his  own,  had  yet  his  profession  left,  and  he 
bent  not  for  a  moment  beneath  the  disappointment.  Finding, 
however,  that  he  must  hew  out  his  fortune  by  his  own  strong 
will,  he  resolved  to  shrink  not  from  severe  labor;  and  he 
knew  that  *  young  man,  without  money  or  powerful  relations, 
may  occupy  a  more  respectable  position,  and  advance  more 
surely  and  steadily  in  a  country  village  than  in  a  large  town. 
It  was  with  this  view,  and  at  the  urgent  solicitations  of  an 
old  friend  of  his  father's,  wishing  to  retire  from  business,  that 
he  returned  to  Alderbrook ;  and  even  in  less  than  six  short 
months,  by  his  talent,  his  legal  knowledge,  his  sterling  worth, 
and  gentlemanly  accomplishments,  he  had  won  the  confidence 


28  GRACE    LINDEN. 

of  the  oldest  and  most  influential  inhabitants,  not  only  of  the 
village  but  of  the  county. 

Grace  thought  it  very  strange  that  such  a  distinguished 
gentleman,  as  Mr.  Russel  was  considered,  should  endeavor  to 
seek  her  out,  and  she  did  not  believe  —  not  she  —  but  there 
was  a  little  touch  of  her  old  friend  Harry  about  him  yet.  At 
any  rate,  there  was  no  harm,  as  Frank  had  said,  in  looking 
well ;  and  so  our  heroine  examined  her  little  wardrobe,  and 
spent  a  half  hour  in  deciding  which  of  her  very  limited  num 
ber  of  pretty  dresses  would  set  off  her  figure  to  the  best 
advantage.  Lizzy  said  a  lemon-colored  battiste,  but  Mrs. 
Linden  spoke  a  word  in  favor  of  a  plain  white  muslin,  and 
Grace  submitted  to  her  mother's  judgment,  not  a  little  influ 
enced  by  the  consideration  that  Lizzy  wore  white  muslin  too. 

Very  lovely  was  our  charming  Grace  Linden  that  evening, 
and  very  much  bent  on  entertaining  her  visiter,  in  whose  large 
dark  eyes  she  detected  a  lingering  resemblance  to  her  friend 
Harry.  At  first,  Russel  seemed  surprised  at  the  beautiful 
vision  before  him ;  perhaps  he  too  had  forgotten  the  flight  of 
time,  and  expected  to  see  his  little  Grace  again.  However 
that  might  be,  before  the  evening  was  far  advanced,  he  was 
evidently  reconciled  to  the  change.  As  for  Grace,  she  suc 
ceeded  very  well  in  making  "  pretty  speeches,"  whether  she 
studied  them  for  the  purpose  or  not,  but  she  did  not  succeed 
so  well  in  feeling  entirely  at  her  ease.  She  would  have 
been  much  better  satisfied  making  aprons  for  the  good-natured 
Harry  Russel,  than  playing  the  agreeable  to  the  courtly  gen 
tleman  whose  call  had  been  pronounced  such  an  honor.  She 
did  play  the  agreeable,  however,  to  the  admiration  of  her  sis 
ter  Lizzy,  particularly,  who  was  quite  sure  "  dear,  darling 
Grace  "  must  be  the  most  accomplished  lady  in  the  world,  and 
watched  her  with  proud,  loving  eyes  the  whole  evening. 

In  a  week  from  this  time,  Mr.  Russel  was  quite  domesti 
cated  in  the  family  of  the  Lindens.  He  came  almost  every 
evening,  but  he  no  longer  devoted  himself  exclusively  to 
Grace.  Indeed,  a  kind  of  reserve  seemed  to  have  sprung  up 
between  them,  which  curtailed  the  strides  of  the  booted  imag- 


GRACE    LINDEN.  29 

ination  amazingly.  The  attention  of  Grace  was  necessarily 
very  much  devoted  to  the  young  friends  with  whom  she  had 
for  years  been  on  terms  of  intimacy.  She  sang  and  played 
for  them,  and  chatted,  and  laughed,  and  danced ;  and,  when 
ever  she  did,  she  was  sure  to  receive  a  full  share  of  flatteries 
and  caresses.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  her  triumphs,  when 
her  lip  put  on  its  brightest  smiles,  and  her  eye  flashed  with 
pleasurable  excitement,  Eussel  would  look  upon  her,  and 
think  of  the  pale,  sad  little  girl,  that  had  so  strongly  excited 
his  boyish  sympathy.  Could  this  gay,  thoughtless  creature 
be  the  same  ?  this  pretty  butterfly,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of 
admiration,  as  though  it  were  the  life  of  her  spirit  ?  Could 
this  be  the  Grace  Linden  that  he  had  longed  to  look  upon 
again,  as  something  consecrated  to  all  that  is  beautiful,  and 
good,  and  pure,  though  the  impersonation  of  suffering  ?  Kus- 
sel  might  be  unreasonable,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  see  Grace 
Linden  so  happy.  Perhaps  he  had  hoped  again  to  be  her 
comforter.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  felt  displeased,  disappointed, 
almost  resentful ;  and  the  more  he  saw  of  the  lady's  singular 
power  of  fascination,  the  more  closely  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  unassuming,  single-hearted  Lizzy,  and  her  no  less  unas 
suming  and  still  interesting  mother.  I^ussel  had  yet  to  learn 
that  a  settled  steadiness  of  purpose,  an  earnest  spirit,  and  a 
deep,  changeless,  watchful,  living  love,  are  not  incompatible 
with  light  words  and  gay  smiles. 

"  She  has  rare  endowments,"  he  would  say  to  himself, 
"  and  is  strangely  accomplished  for  one  so  young  and  friend 
less  ;  but  Lizzy,  with  her  artless  ingenuousness,  and  truthful 
simplicity,  is  far  more  lovely."  And  yet,  while  drawing  these 
sage  comparisons,  Russel's  eyes  followed  their  unconscious 
subject  from  place  to  place,  as  though  he  deemed  that  might 
check  her  mirthfulness,  or  throw  a  veil  of  homeliness  over  per 
fections  at  which  he  chose  to  carp.  The  truth  is,  Russel  was 
reading  in  a  strange  book,  and  he  had  yet  the  alphabet  to 
learn.  With  all  his  lore,  the  key  to  woman's  nature  had  not 
been  given  him.  In  the  effort  to  please  and  render  happy,  he 
saw  only  a  fondness  for  admiration ;  the  good  nature  which 
3* 


30  GRACE    LINDEN. 

smiled  at  a  gross  flattery,  rather  than  wound  the  flatterer,  was 
in  his  eyes  vanity ;  and  in  the  sensitiveness  which  led  Grace 
to  forbear  speaking  of  a  time  when  she  was  the  object  of  his 
pity,  when  she  was  even  more  miserable  than  he  could  well 
imagine,  he  read  pride  and  heartlessness.  When  obliged  to 
acknowledge  the  unquestionable  superiority  of  Grace  over 
those  around  her,  he  lamented  the  selfish  ambition  that  he  be 
lieved  had  led  her  to  labor  all  her  life  long  for  her  own  ad 
vancement,  rather  than  sit  down  at  the  simple  hearth-stone 
consecrated  by  love  alone.  Such  a  picture  would  Russel 
draw  of  Grace  Linden,  meanwhile,  shutting  his  heart  against 
her ;  but  it  always  faded  before  one  of  her  gentle,  winning 
glances,  and  then  he  would  sit  and  converse  with  her  by  the 
hour,  strenuously  resisting  every  interruption.  As  for  Grace, 
she  saw  herself,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  object  of 
criticism.  Russel  was  studiously  polite  to  her,  but  she  knew 
that  he  was  not  always  pleased,  and  she  began  to  watch  her 
self  as  she  thought  he  watched  her ;  until,  by  natural  distrust, 
she  was  driven  to  very  humiliating  conclusions.  All  this 
could  not  be  without  its  influence  on  her  manners,  and  she 
grew  capricious.  Sometimes  she  was  timid  and  reserved, 
sometimes  startlingly  brilliant;  again  gay  and  trifling  to  an 
excess  in  ill  keeping  with  her  thoughtful  face  and  character 
of  pensive  sweetness  ;  but  never  quite  simple  and  easy,  and 
natural ;  it  was  impossible  when  Russel  was  near.  She  had 
looked  up  to  Harry  Russel  confidingly,  and  acknowledged 
his  superiority  by  constant  deference,  when  they  were  first 
associated ;  but  now  that  distance  seemed  immeasurably  in 
creased,  and  she  had  learned  to  fear  him.  Russel  always 
listened  attentively  to  all  she  had  to  say,  and  seemed  pleased 
to  hear  her  converse ;  but  notwithstanding  the  promise  of  his 
boyhood,  he  was  no  lady's  man.  He  was  unskilled  in  the  use 
of  those  pretty  nothings,  which  are  usually  thought  to  be  all 
important ;  his  words  were  full  of  meaning,  and  Grace,  in 
listening  to  him,  forgot  to  reply.  Then  she  was  free  and  nat 
ural,  and  Russel  failed  not  to  admire  her ;  but  this  often  gave 
way  to  a  strange  embarrassment  that  made  her  almost  awk- 


GRACE    LINDEN.  84 

ward.  At  such  times,  after  he  was  gone,  poor  Grace  would 
review  every  foolish  sentence  she  had  uttered,  and  dwell  pain 
fully  on  some  thoughtless  act,  which  she  was  sure  she  would 
not  have  committed  in  any  other  presence.  The  pleasant 
vacation  that  Grace  had  promised  herself  grew  uncomfortable, 
and  she  almost  wished  that  Russel  would  be  a  less  constant 
visitor ;  but  when  he  did  chance  to  stay  away,  the  eyes  of 
Grace  were  off  the  door  scarcely  a  moment.  Had  she  offend 
ed  him,  she  constantly  inquired  of  herself,  or  could  it  be 
indifference  or  disgust  ? 

One  morning  Grace  was  very  pleasantly  surprised  by  a 
piece  of  new  music  from  Russel ;  and  she  practised  upon  it 
all  day  that  she  might  play  it  to  him  in  the  evening ;  but 
when  evening  came  she  was  dissatisfied  with  her  execution, 
and  refused  to  play  until  a  long  time  urged,  and  then  her  hand 
was  not  firm,  and  she  touched  the  keys  falteringly.  Russel 
seemed  vexed  —  she  had  played  for  others,  well  and  often  — 
why  would  she  never  do  anything  that  he  wished  ?  Grace 
saw  that  he  was  displeased,  and  her  eye  moistened ;  then  she 
recollected  that  he  had  no  right  to  be,  and,  with  a  very  cold, 
quiet  excuse,  she  turned  from  the  piano,  and  joining  a  young 
friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  was  soon  engaged  in  a 
very  animated  conversation.  Now  and  then  the  sound  of 
Russel's  deep,  manly  voice,  made  her  reverse  a  sentence  or 
forget  to  finish  one  ;  but  nearly  a  half  hour  passed  before  she 
ventured  to  look  at  him.  He  was  explaining  to  her  brother 
the  true  bearing  of  some  political  question,  and  seemed  deeply 
interested ;  but  whenever  he  paused,  Grace  observed  a  deep, 
painful  seriousness  upon  his  brow  that  was  quite  unusual. 
"  He  has  something  to  trouble  him,"  thought  the  fair  girl, 
"  and  I,  foolish  child  that  I  am,  have  added  to  his  annoyance." 
Instantly  every  thought  of  his  superiority  vanished  —  she  did 
not  care  if  he  did  consider  her  a  simpleton  —  she  was  sure 
she  could  not  appear  more  of  one  than  when  she  attempted 
that  show  of  dignity  so  little  in  accordance  with  her  character. 
He  was  inquiring  for  a  paper  which  Frank  did  not  think  was 
in  the  house ;  Grace  knew  where  it  was,  and  she  glided  qui 


GRACE    LINDEN. 

etly  out  of  the  room,  and  returning,  slid  it  into  his  hand  with 
a  pleasing,  winsome  glance,  which  seemed  to  inquire,  "  Can 
we  not  still  be  friends?"  Russel  looked  up,  surprised  and 
delighted ;  and  that  bright,  earnest,  heartfelt  expression,  which 
Grace  so  well  remembered  in  the  boy,  lighted  up  his  coun 
tenance.  And  they  were  friends  —  such  very  interested 
friends,  that  Frank,  and  Lizzy,  and  young  Edward  Sommers, 
and  two  or  three  other  mischievous  persons,  amused  them- 
sehes  at  their  expense  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"  You  must  hear  me  play  that  exquisite  air  before  you 
leave,  Mr.  Russel,"  said  Grace ;  "  the  fault  was  all  in  my 
hand  before;  I  can  assure  you  the  will  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it." 

"  And  the  rare  pet  you  got  into  afterwards,  Gracey  ? "  in 
quired  Frank. 

"  That  was  —  but  I  '11  not  have  you  for  my  confessor,  with 
your  saucy  questions  and  brusque  ways ;  would  you,  Mr. 
Russel?" 

Russel  thought  he  should  like  to  propose  a  candidate  for 
that  office  himself;  and  when  Grace  again  crimsoned,  and 
made  some  remark  to  her  mother  to  hide  her  embarrassment, 
he  wondered  that  he  could  ever  have  esteemed  her  cold  and 
heartless,  ruined  by  her  ambition.  She  sat  down  to  the 
piano ;  and  now,  conscious  of  his  approbation,  she  played 
with  more  spirit  and  animation  than  was  her  wont.  Once 
she  cast  a  quick  glance  at  Russel.  He  stood  in  breathless  at 
tention.  Then  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  glowed,  and 
her  beautiful  neck  arched  itself  proudly.  She  finished,  and 
rose  from  the  instrument  in  conscious  triumph  —  her  only 
thought  that  she  had  redeemed  her  fault.  Russel  wished  she 
had  not  played ;  and  Grace  easily  detected  the  want  of  heart 
in  his  cold,  measured  compliments. 

"He  is  not  worth  the  trouble  that  I  have  bestowed  upon 
him,"  thought  Grace,  as,  with  pouting  lip  and  swelling  bosom, 
she  curtsied  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  Ruined  by  her  ambition,"  thought  Russel,  all  the  way 
home ;  and  all  night  long  it  was  the  burden  of  his  dreams. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  33 

As  Russel  walked  home  that  evening,  a  drunken  man  stag 
gered  up  to  him,  guided  by  the  light  from  a  low-eaved,  filthy 
grocery,  and,  slapping  him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder,  poured 
forth  a  profusion  of  half-profane,  half- vulgar  slang,  of  which 
nothing  could  be  well  understood.  Russel,  however,  caught 
the  name  of  Grace  Linden ;  and,  swinging  the  impertinent 
intruder  around,  he  dropped  him  by  the  roadside  and  proceed 
ed  on  his  way.  In  the  mean  time  the  drunken  man  crept  from 
the  gutter ;  and,  half-sobered  by  the  energetic  proceedings  of 
Russel,  turned  slowly  down  the  street  and  walked  on  until  he 
reached  the  house  of  Mr.  Linden.  Here  he  paused,  and 
gazing  up  at  the  lighted  windows,  seemed  revolving  a  bitter 
subject.  "  Yes,  it  is  all  owing  to  her,"  he  muttered,  "  all ; 
and  if  I  should  die  on  a  gallows  I  would  say  she  brought  me 
there.  She  did  n't  like  my  face,  forsooth,  and  my  voice  was 
not  so  smooth  and  soft  as  old  Russel's  son's,  and  so  I  was  sent 
out  to  starve.  Now,  by  all  the  powers  of  hell  — "  the  mis 
erable  man,  pausing  in  his  malediction,  as  though  his  hatred 
could  not  be  shaped  into  words,  shook  his  clenched  fist  toward 
the  window,  and  then,  leaning  over  the  fence,  seemed  engaged 
in  eager  plotting  with  his  own  cunning.  Now  and  then,  he 
would  raise  himself,  and  gaze  up  at  the  house  with  a  dark, 
fierce  glare ;  but,  one  by  one,  the  lights  went  out,  till  every 
window  was  darkened,  and  then  the  drunkard  stretched  him 
self  upon  the  sod,  and  slept  more  sweetly  than  many  a  better 
man. 

As  Grace  Linden  looked  from  her  window  early  on  the 
ensuing  morning,  she  observed  a  miserable  wretch,  in  tattered 
garb  and  with  a  face  distorted  by  evil  passion,  regarding  her 
intently  from  an  opposite  corner.  A  feeling  of  indefinable 
fear  crept  over  her,  for  there  was  something  strangely  familiar 
in  that  malicious  expression,  which  led  her  at  once  to  think 
of  the  boy  who  had  filled  her  little  head  with  tales  of  horror, 
that  even  now  she  shuddered  to  recall.  Immediately,  the  face 
peering  at  her  through  the  vines  of  Abby's  little  window,  with 
all  its  dark  malignity,  was  portrayed  in  living  colors ;  and 
hastily  drawing  the  little  curtain  before  the  window,  she  sat 


34  GRACE    LINDEN. 

down  upon  her  bed-side,  and  wept  long  and  bitterly,  not  over 
the  sufferings,  but  the  touching  sorrow  of  the  past.  That 
Abby's  lot  had  been  so  dark,  so  sad  !  and  now  they  were  all 
so  very  happy !  Grace,  however,  soon  dried  her  tears,  and 
tying  on  her  bonnet,  stole  silently  down  the  stairs,  through 
the  garden,  up  a  well-trodden  foot-path,  and  soon  she  was 
kneeling  on  her  sister's  grave,  within  the  enclosure  of  the  vil 
lage  church-yard. 

"  And  when  six  months  more  have  passed,  you  will  take 
up  your  abode  in  Alderbrook,  I  suppose,  or,  perhaps,  favor 
some  brighter  clime  with  your  presence,"  said  Russel,  one 
evening,  when  Grace  had  been  drawing  a  mimic  picture  of 
her  return  to  school ;  and  as  he  spoke,  he  bent  his  searching 
eyes  upon  her,  as  though  he  expected  to  read  the  answer  more 
in  her  face  than  words. 

"  Oh  !  the  brighter  clime,  of  course,  has  my  patronage," 
answered  the  lady,  gaily ;  "  my  next  visit  to  Alderbrook  will 
be  a  flying  one." 

Russel's  countenance  fell.  "  Your  frienls,"  said  he,  with 
some  bitterness,  "  will  doubtless  find  the  parting  easier,  since 
it  is  for  your  happiness." 

"  Yes,  for  my  happiness,"  echoed  Grace,  with  an  ill  sup 
pressed  sigh. 

"  On  what  quarter  of  the  globe,  fair  lady,  will  you  deign 
to  cast  the  sunlight  of  your  smiles  ?  "  inquired  a  slim  clerk, 
in  the  first  and  worst  stages  of  dandyism,  stepping  daintily 
towards  the  seat  which  Grace  occupied. 

"  That  is  beyond  my  circumscribed  prescience,  O  most  gal 
lant  subject  mine,"  answered  Grace,  mischievously  ;  "  will  you 
cast  my  horoscope  ?  " 

The  flowering  dandy  seemed  a  little  puzzled.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  he  was  no  lexicographer,  and  he  retreated  without 
attempting  any  familiarities  with  the  stars 

"  Then  you  have  not  decided  as  to  the  future,  Miss  Lin 
den  ? "  inquired  Russel. 

"  Circumstances  must  decide  me,  Mr.  Russel,"  and  the  lips 


GRACE    LINDEN.  35 

of  Grace  remained  apart  as  though  she  would  have  added 
more,  but  was  for  some  reason  withheld. 

"  We  are  all  very  much  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances," 
remarked  Russel ;  "  but  it  seems  hardly  fitting  that  one  like 
you  should  confide  your  destiny  to  such  a  capricious  guide." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  answered  Grace,  almost  gloomily,  "  but  in 
that  case  the  world  has  but  a  choice  few,  well-guided.  —  I 
must  bide  my  destiny,"  she  added,  with  more  cheerfulness. 

Russel  was  silent.  There  was  evidently  a  thought  he 
would  have  spoken,  but  it  was  probably  something  that  he  had 
no  right  to  speak,  and  so  he  bit  his  lips  and  crowded  down 
the  temptation.  Meanwhile  Grace  was  not  quite  sure  that  she 
had  not  said  too  much  of  herself  and  her  plans ;  and,  con 
fused  by  his  silence,  she  proceeded,  like  all  embarrassed  per 
sons,  to  say  more. 

"  Not  that  I  anticipate  a  severer  destiny  ;  it  is  much  pleas- 
anter  to  look  for  sunshine  than  clouds." 

"  And  you  have  no  reason  to  look  for  clouds,"  said  Russel, 
with  a  sad  smile ;  "  I  predict  for  you  a  smooth  destiny." 

"  Then  I  shall  add  the  weight  of  your  prediction  to  my 
own  hope,"  answered  Grace,  cheerfully ;  "  and,  looking  upon 
the  whole  past,  I  will  venture  to  believe  that  Fortune  may  not 
so  change  as  to  prove  herself  a  severe  'step-dame.' " 

"  Heaven  grant  that  she  may  not ! "  answered  Russel,  "  and 
yet,  success  is  not  always  for  our  best  good ;  I  have  known 
its  influence  on  the  character  to  be  anything  but  salutary." 

"  I  hope  my  character  stands  in  no  need  of  reverses  now;" 
answered  Grace,  affected  beyond  control ;  "  you,  Mr.  Russel, 
better  than  any  one  else,  should  know  how  deeply  it  has  been 
tried.  The  future  can  have  nothing  too  dark,  too  bitter  for 
me  ;  for  the  remembrance  of  that  one  gloomy  summer,  with 
the  toils  and  privations  that  succeeded  it,  would  make  all  after 
adversity  a  light  thing.  Forgive  the  allusion  to  those  days  — 
I  had  thought  never  to  mention  them  ;  but  the  remembrance 
is  with  me  always ;  and  I  cannot  separate  the  generous  boy 
to  whom  I  owe  perhaps  life  —  reason,  I  am  almost  sure, 
frorn  — "  Grace  had  been  too  much  excited,  she  had  gone  too 


36  GRACE    LINDEN. 

far.  One  thought  of  the  proud,  stern  countenance  of  Russel, 
abashed  her ;  and,  unable  to  extricate  herself,  she  found  re 
lief  in  an  ungovernable  burst  of  tears. 

"  Do  not  separate  them,  dear  Grace,  do  not  try ! "  The 
words  fell  upon  her  ear  in  low,  thrilling  tones,  that  she  could 
scarcely  recognize ;  and  Grace  dared  not  raise  her  eyes,  lest 
she  should  discover  that  they  had  been  spoken  in  mockery  of 
her  emotion. 

"  What  a  stupid  couple  you  are,  here  in  this  corner  !"  ex 
claimed  Frank,  coming  forward,  as  is  the  fortune  of  some 
people,  just  when  he  should  not ;  "  and  tears,  as  I  live  !  Be 
tween  ourselves,  Russel,  Gracey  is  getting  to  be  the  veriest 
cry-baby  in  Christendom.  I  wish  you  could  convince  her  that 
it  will  spoil  her  eyes  to  be  so  mopish." 

"  Mopish  ! "  repeated  Russel,  abstractedly. 

"  Excessively  —  if  you  could  only  have  seen  her  the  other 
evening,  just  when  you  were  not  here  to  see  her  — " 

"  Frank  ! "  exclaimed  the  sister,  quite  thrown  off  her  guard. 
"  Don't  believe  anything  he  says,  Mr.  Russel ;  his  word  is 
not  to  be  depended  on  for  a  moment.  You  know  I  am  always 
happy —  it  is  my  nature  to  be  happy.  I  could  not  be  mopish 
if  I  should  try.  By  the  way,  Frank,  did  you  bring  me  the  — 
the  book  you  promised  ?  " 

"  What  book  ?  " 

"  Why  the  nice  story-book,  that  was  to  amuse  me  while 
travelling.  Frank  has  a  very  treacherous  memory,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Russel. 

The  young  man  started  and  looked  up  vacantly.  "  Were 
you  speaking  to  me,  Gra  —  Miss  Russel  —  Miss  —  Miss  Lin 
den  ?"  and  poor  Russel,  confounded  by  his  most  awkward  of 
all  awkward  blunders,  reddened  and  looked  more  confused 
than  ever  Grace  had  done. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  O  yes;  I  recollect  all  about  the  book,  Gracey!" 
laughed  Frank,  brimful  of  merriment,  at  the  sudden  light  that 
broke  in  upon  him ;  and,  with  a  very  knowing  look,  and  a  very 
low  bow,  he  turned,  as  he  said,  to  company  less  pre-occupied. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  37 

"  Frank  is  very  merry  to-night,"  observed  Grace,  "  he  must 
have  been  visiting  the  Ashleys." 

There  's  nothing  like  woman's  tact  to  disentangle  the  Gor- 
dian  knot  of  a  double  and  twisted  embarrassment,  that,  origi 
nating  in  nothing,  tends  to  nothing.  The  Ashleys  afforded  a 
fruitful  theme,  and  they  were  discussed  with  a  genuine  relish 
for  gossip,  that  had  never  before  been  developed  in  either  of 
our  young  friends.  It  may  be  that  there  were  mingling  some 
home-allusions,  and  direct  personalities  ;  it  is  certain  that  there 
were  looks  and  tones  not  quite  in  keeping  with  the  careless 
words ;  otherwise,  what  should  place  the  two  young  people 
on  the  very  peculiar  footing  that  they  evidently  occupied  at 
parting  ? 

The  next  meeting  between  Grace  and  Russel  was  joyous 
and  cordial  on  one  side,  timid,  pleased,  and  gracefully  shy  on 
the  other.  They  met  in  the  magnificent  old  woods,  where 
conventionalism  seems  a  mockery,  and  heart  speaks  to  heart 
through  the  medium  of  invented  words,  or  the  more  eloquent 
language  traced  by  a  divine  finger  on  the  countenance,  and 
colored  from  the  soul. 

Side  by  side,  they  walked  beneath  the  grateful  shadows, 
talking  in  tones  low  and  deep,  as  if  every  word  had  its  origin 
in  the  inner  sanctum  of  the  spirit ;  and  carelessly  crushing 
the  bright-eyed  flowers,  and  the  large,  round  dew-drops,  scat 
tered  in  their  path-way,  as  if  they  had  never  admired  the 
humble  beauties  of  the  woodland.  And  there  Grace  unfolded 
all  her  plans  for  the  future  —  those  plans  that  she  had  never 
fully  confided  even  to  her  darling  brother ;  and  looked  up  for 
approbation,  just  as  she  would  have  looked  to  Harry  Rus 
sel  ten  summers  before,  only  far  more  confidingly.  And  yet 
Grace  was  no  longer  the  child,  but  the  strong-minded,  deep- 
judging,  all-enduring  woman ;  beautiful  in  her  simplicity, 
generous  in  her  unmeasured  trustfulness,  and  strong  in  those 
high  resolves,  which  had  been  the  dreams  of  her  childhood, 
and  were  now  approaching  to  realities.  And  now  Russel 
learned  the  object  of  that  ambition  which  he  had  so  often 
censured.  Lizzy  must  be  allowed  advantages  equal  to  her 
4 


38  GRACE    LINDEN. 

sister's ;  and  Lizzy's  father  and  mother  must  be  provided  with 
a  comfortable,  pleasant  home,  and  find  again  the  happiness 
they  lost  in  youth.  It  was  a  debt  she  owed,  so  Grace  insist 
ed,  for  all  the  care  and  wearying  anxiety  which  she  had  oc 
casioned  them  in  childhood  ;  and  she  would  repay  it,  though 
grey  hairs  should  come  long  before  her  mission  could  be  ac 
complished.  And  Grace  was  surprised  to  see  the  dignified, 
manly  Russel,  with  all  his  coldness  and  sternness,  display  an 
almost  girlish  weakness  of  feeling,  at  the  unfolding  of  a  plan 
so  simple  and  natural.  She  wished  him  to  praise  her ;  —  in 
deed,  it  would  have  made  her  sad  to  think  that  he  did  not 
appreciate  the  self-denial  it  would  require  to  separate  herself 
from  all  she  loved,  and  spend  years  of  toil  among  strangers. 
She  was  no  heroine,  but  a  fond,  devoted,  confiding  woman, 
ready  for  any  sacrifice  of  her  own  interests,  but  in  the  midst 
of  all,  panting  for  that  breath  of  life  to  every  true  woman  — 
sympathy.  And  yet  she  saw  no  cause  for  the  deep  emotion 
which  almost  unmanned  her  lover.  She  knew  that  she  was 
doing  right ;  that  she  was  acting  as  the  world  would  call  (if 
the  world  ever  knew  it)  generously ;  but  little  did  she  know 
the  touching  beauty,  the  deep,  tender  sacredness,  which  her 
character  from  that  moment  assumed  in  the  eyes  of  the  hith 
erto  suspicious,  though  fascinated  Russel.  It  was  late  before 
they  emerged  from  that  now  endeared  forest ;  and  then  words 
had  been  spoken  which  are  thus  spoken  but  once  ;  and  which 
never,  Tiever,  even  through  a  long  eternity,  could  be  recalled. 
The  solemn  stars  had  witnessed  their  betrothal ;  and  the  green 
forest  leaves,  fluttering  their  fresh  lips  together,  murmured  it 
to  each  other,  and  to  the  wandering  breezes ;  and  the  spirit  of 
the  dead  sister,  in  whose  bosom  Grace  had  wept  her  bitterest 
tears,  carried  the  holy  vows  to  Heaven,  and  saw  them  en 
graved  on  angelic  tablets. 

CHAPTER   III. EIGHT-AND-TWENTY. 

"  AND  you  have  never  heard  from  him  since,  dear  Grace  ?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

'*  And  yet  you  feel  no  resentment  ? " 


GRACE    LINDEN.  39 

"  Not  resentment,  but  something  of  disappointment,  —  a 
great  deal  disappointed,  indeed.  Few  persons  in  the  world 
would  stand  a  ten  years'  trial,  Lizzy ;  but  I  did  have  full  con 
fidence  in  Russel.  However,  it  has  not  made  me  distrustful 
of  my  kind ;  faith  and  hope  are  yet  strong  within  me,  and 
even  if  the  past  failed,  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  present. 
Our  home  here  is  a  perfect  little  paradise.  Your  husband  is 
the  most  perfect  specimen  of  a  man  (always  excepting  one 
that  I  have  no  right  to  remember)  in  the  world;  and  'Gan- 
papa's  little  pet,  Charley,'  the  dearest  and  cunningest  little 
fellow  —  a  perfect  Cupid,  Lizzy  !  I  am  so  glad  you  persuaded 
Sommers  to  settle  near  us  !  As  for  Frank's  wife,  I  shall  love 
her  dearly.  She  is  so  patient,  and  gentle,  and  amiable  !  I 
see  that  father  and  mother  are  very  fond  of  her." 

"  And  well  they  may  be.  She  is  entirely  devoted  to  them 
and  Frank.  At  first,  mother  had  some  misgivings  about  liv 
ing  with  a  daughter-in-law,  but  Mary  is  so  respectful  and 
dutiful,  and  so  companionable  withal,  that  she  would  not  part 
with  her  now  for  the  world.  But  do  tell  me,  Grace,  what  you 
suppose  could  have  actuated  Russel  to  treat  you  in  such  a 
manner  ? " 

"  Nothing,  I  think,  but  time  and  absence.  It  is  perfectly 
natural  —  or  would  be  in  any  other  man ;  but  I  was  foolish 
enough  to  suppose  him  exempt  from  all  the  frailties  of  hu 
manity.  Indeed,  I  now  think  him  exempt  from  most  of  them." 

"  How  strange  ! " 

"What,  Lizzy?" 

"  Why,  your  talk.  Do  you  know  A  have  been  watching 
your  face  this  half  hour,  and  at  last  have  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  you  were  never  in  love  ?" 

"  Ah ! " 

"  The  truth  is,  Grace,  you  are  a  little  too  much  reconciled 
to  suit  me." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  unhappy,  then?" 

"  I  cannot  s-ay  that  I  do,  exactly ;  but  it  would  be  impos 
sible  to  pity  you  with  that  smiling  face,  and  happy  way  of 
saying  and  doing  everything.  Own,  Gracey,  that  you  only 


40  GRACE    LINDEN. 

fancied  Mr.  Russel  —  that  your  heart  was  touched  only  on 
the  surface." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  Grace,  carelessly. 

"  Good  !  and  now  solve  a  mystery.  Why  didn't  you  fall 
in  love  with  that  amiable  young  Frenchman  that  you  wrote 
me  about  ? " 

"  Because  my  fancy  (since  you  call  it  that)  was  pre-occu- 
pied." 

"  The  only  reason,  Gracey  ? " 

"  The  only  reason,  I  suspect.  If  I  had  seen  him  at  eight, 
or  even  at  eighteen,  Russel  might  never  have  had  the  oppor 
tunity  to  exhibit  his  fiddeness." 

"  But  when  you  ceased  hearing  from  Russel?" 

"  It  made  no  difference,  Lizzy.  My  vows  to  him  are  as 
binding  as  though  his  remained  unbroken." 

"  Oh,  Grace !  do  not  say  that !  His  falsehood  must  not 
condemn  you  to  a  life  of  loneliness.  You  would  make  such 
a  dear,  loving  little  wife !  I  would  forget  him  just  out  of 
spite,  if  I  were  in  your  place." 

"  And  so  spite  myself.  Ah,  Lizzy !  that  is  too  often  the 
case  with  us  foolish  women ;  but  we  are  spirited  at  a  vast 
expense.  To  show  a  false  lover  that  we  can  do  without  him, 
we  sell  the  remnant  of  happiness  which  he  has  left  us,  and 
become  martyrs  to  our  own  vanity." 

"  But  think  of  your  being  an  old  maid,  Grace  !  " 

"  Ha  !  so  it  comes  to  that  after  all !  An  honorable  sister 
hood,  Lizzy ! " 

"  Grace,  a  strange  notion  has  just  possessed  me.  Let  me 
see  Russel's  last  letter." 

Grace  walked  across  the  portico  very  slowly,  and  by  the 
time  she  again  stood  before  her  sister,  her  face  wore  its  usual 
expression  of  subdued,  but  heart-felt  cheerfulness. 

"  Those  letters,  Lizzy,  I  have  not  looked  upon  in  three 
years.  It  is  not  well  to  test  our  strength  of  character  too  far. 
They  are  so,  so  like  him ! "  she  murmured,  as  she  again 
turned  away  and  bent  her  face  close  to  a  little  rose-bush  that 
stood  beside  her. 


GRACE     LINDEN.  41 

At  another  time,  it  is  probable  that  Lizzy  would  have  ob 
served  all  this  ;  but  the  calm,  quiet  manner  of  her  sister  had 
effectually  misled  her,  and  she  was  only  intent  on  looking 
into  the  mystery. 

"  But  tell  me,  Grace,  if  you  discovered  any  change  in  his 
letters  —  any  coldness  or  indifference — " 

"  Oh,  no  !  they  were  like  himself  to  the  last  —  as  he  was 
before  I  left  home  for  New  Orleans  —  so  tender,  and  gener 
ous,  and  noble  !  No,  Lizzy  !  his  letters  never  changed." 

"  Then,  Grace,  my  word  for  it,  that  Frenchman,  that  young 
De  Vere,  who  loved  you  so  much,  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mis 
chief.  I  am  certain  his  letters  were  intercepted." 

"  Never,  Lizzy  !  at  least  by  De  Vere.  He  is  the  soul  of 
honor.  I  would  sooner  suspect  you,  or  myself,  or  anybody, 
of  such  a  crime." 

"  Then  what  could  it  be,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Time  and  constant  occupation  —  nothing  else,  I  feel 
assured." 

"  But  is  n't  it  strange,  then,  that  he  has  never  married  some 
one  else  ? " 

"  Lizzy,  dear  Lizzy  !  let  us  change  this  subject.  We  can 
not  account  for  all  Russel  has  done  ;  we  only  know  that  he  is 
lost  to  us,  and  forever.  I  cannot  feel  resentment  for  what  I 
know  to  be  very  natural.  I  have  schooled  my  heart  into  sub 
mission  and  cheerfulness,  and  I  intend  to  be  very  happy  with 
you  here  —  dear  loving  ones,  that  you  are  !  But,  Lizzy,  I 
have  a  woman's  heart,  and  I  must  own  to  you  that  it  has  not 
yet  learned  to  subdue  its  many  weaknesses.  No  tears,  dar 
ling,  I  do  not  need  them  —  indeed,  I  do  not,  and  you  must 
not  pity  me.  I  am  no  love-lorn  damsel,  but  neither  am  I  a 
stoic.  Now  for  a  ride  on  horseback,  and  let  us  forget  for  a 
while  that  there  is  anybody  but  us  two  in  the  wide  world." 

Ten  years  had  not  passed  over  the  head  of  Grace  Linden 
without  leaving  an  impress.  They  had  matured  her  beauty, 
added  polish  and  dignity  to  her  manners,  ripened  her  intel 
lect,  but  cast  a  deep,  deep  shadow  on  her  heart.  In  pursu 
ance  of  an  original  plan,  on  leaving  school,  she  had  gained  a. 


42  GRACE    LINDEN. 

situation  as  governess  in  a  southern  family.  The  first  few 
years  of  her  exile  from  home  had  been  tedious  and  weari 
some  ;  but  then  she  entered  the  family  of  the  De  Veres,  and 
from  that  time  everything  was  changed.  She  had  spent  but 
a  few  months  with  them  before  she  became  less  the  governess 
than  the  friend  and  companion  —  the  daughter  and  sister. 
As  she  intimated  to  Lizzy,  delighted  would  they  have  been  to 
make  her  so  in  reality,  to  keep  her  with  them  forever ;  but 
when  Grace  gently  and  truthfully  gave  her  great  reason  for  a 
refusal,  she  suffered  no  diminution  of  kindness.  Political 
troubles  having  driven  the  De  Veres  from  their  own  country, 
they  had  brought  with  them  those  republican  sentiments  which 
were  the  fruit  of  the  times,  together  with  cultivated  minds, 
refined  tastes,  polished  manners,  and  a  high-souled  generosity 
that  sometimes  led  to  the  most  noble  and  chivalric  actions. 
Such  spirits  have  a  mesmeric  lore  by  which  they  read  each 
other's  natures  at  a  glance ;  and  this  must  have  been  the 
secret  of  the  strong  attachment  between  Grace  Linden  and 
those  she  served.  The  residence  of  Grace  in  this  family  was 
highly  advantageous  to  her ;  for  she  mingled  with  them  freely 
at  home,  and  accompanied  them  abroad  as  the  daughters' 
friend ;  at  the  same  time  receiving  a  salary  which  enabled 
her  fully  to  carry  out  her  intentions  with  regard  to  her  parents. 
For  five  years,  almost  every  act  of  her  life  and  wish  of  her 
heart  were  known  to  Russel ;  and  he  found  time,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  high  duties,  to  return  her  confidence  warmly  and 
without  measure.  Then,  as  the  time  for  her  returning  home 
drew  near,  he  became  of  a  sudden  strangely  silent.  Grace 
was  all-trusting,  and,  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to  week, 
she  busied  herself  with  framing  excuses,  which,  if  not  satis 
factory,  yet  served  the  purpose  of  busying  the  mind.  She 
did  not  cease  to  write  ;  and  every  day,  with  a  kindling  eye 
and  beating  heart,  did  she  descend  to  meet  the  post-boy  at  the 
hall  door,  returning  as  often  to  weep  over  her  disappointment 
alone.  And  still  did  she  try  to  excuse.  He  was  so  very 
ousy  —  it  was  selfish  to  ask  so  much  of  his  precious  time  — 
then  the  letters  might  have  miscarried  —  those  southern  mails 


GRACE    LINDEN.  43 

were  so  irregular.  Yes  !  they  had  certainly  miscarried,  and 
she  would  write  again.  And  again  she  wrote,  and  again ; 
and  her  heart  grew  sick  with  disappointment.  Then  came 
the  fearful  conviction  of  his  illness  —  illness  among  strangers, 
looked  after  only  by  hirelings ;  for  poor  Grace  had  not  yet  a 
doubt  of  his  truth.  She  could  not  inquire  of  her  friends,  for 
Russel  had  been  for  years  a  popular  metropolitan  lawyer,  and 
they  seldom  saw  or  communicated  with  him.  And  Grace, 
with  her  usual  unselfish  consideration  for  others,  concluded 
that  since  they  were  unable  to  assist  her,  she  would  no* 
trouble  them.  But  her  fears  for  his  illness  were  soon  dissi 
pated,  for  she  one  day  saw,  in  a  northern  paper,  a  notice  of  a 
fine  plea  which  he  had  made  a  few  days  previous ;  and  his 
eloquence,  his  legal  learning,  and  lofty  principles  were  so 
highly  extolled,  that  for  a  moment  Grace  forgot  her  own  trou 
bles  in  her  pride  for  him.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
Gradually  came  the  conviction  that  his  success  was  no  longer 
aught  to  her ;  that,  however  brilliant  his  career  might  be,  her 
future  must  be  one  of  darkness  and  loneliness  —  she  was 
studiously  neglected  and  forgotten.  Oh  !  that  hour  of  wild, 
withering  a»guish  !  that  dark,  deadly  struggle  of  every  power 
within  !  It  was  fearful,  but  Grace  was  alone,  and  not  a  hu 
man  heart  dreamed  of  the  depth  of  her  wretchedness.  Then 
came  a  sense  of  utter,  utter  desolation,  when  all  her  treasured 
hopes  were  crushed  within  her  bosom ;  and  then  a  dead,  cold 
calm,  as  if  the  life-current  had  been  suddenly  congealed,  set 
tled  upon  her  heart.  Her  friends  knew  that  she  was  unhap 
py  ;  and,  without  seeking  for  the  cause,  showered  upon  her 
the  most  tender  attentions,  till  Grace  was  ashamed  not  to 
reward  their  unwearied  kindness  with  success.  For  their 
sakes  she  tried  to  be  cheerful,  and  the  attempt  was  not  alto 
gether  in  vain.  The  time  came  when  Grace  should  have  re 
turned  to  her  home  in  the  north,  but  every  motive  for  return 
ing  had  now  been  taken  from  her.  She  could  not  bear  that 
those,  whose  happiness  had  been  the  whole  care  of  her  life, 
should  see  her  changed,  and  know  that  grief  had  so  changed 
ner :  that  would  be  blotting  out  the  work  of  her  own  hands, 


44  GRACE  LINDEN. 

extinguishing  the  light  which  she  had  herself  created.  The 
De  Veres  were  about  to  make  a  visit  to  the  old  world,  and 
were  urgent  that  she  should  accompany  them.  And  Grace 
consented.  Though  she  had  now  shut  up  her  inner  heart 
against  her  other  self,  and  resolved  not  to  be  the  victim  of  her 
own  dead  hopes,  it  yet  made  but  little  difference  where  she 
was,  provided  the  earliest  and  noblest  of  her  plans  failed  not 
through  her  own  sorrows.  She  wrote  to  announce  her  inten 
tion  of  going  abroad;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  she  spoke 
of  her  changed  prospects,  though,  so  lightly,  as  to  leave  the 
impression  with  all  that  the  arrangement  had  been  made  am 
icably  and  very  probably  for  the  good  of  both  parties.  When 
she  returned  home,  four  years  after,  she  was  so  entirely  the 
Grace  Linden  of  other  days,  that  no  one  would  have  dreamed 
a  single  woe  had  crept  into  her  heart,  a  single  grief  shaded 
her  clear,  open  brow,  or  a  tear  dimmed  the  lustre  of  her  deep, 
soulful  eye.  Months  passed  before  she  even  made  a  confi 
dante  of  Lizzy,  and  then  she  only  gave  her  facts,  carefully 
covering  up  all  that  might  be  painful  in  the  history. 

"  Take  care,  cognata  mia ! "  said  Edward  Sommers,  as 
Grace  playfully- pointed  her  little  riding  whip  at  him,  while 
he  stood  cautioning  for  the  dozenth  time  his  young  wife, 
"  take  care  !  your  day  will  come  yet,  my  gay  Beatrice." 

Grace  flourished  her  whip  again,  the  horses  arched  their 
necks  and  touched  the  pavement  daintily,  as  if  proud  of  their 
fair  burdens  ;  and,  without  waiting  the  conclusion  of  another 
caution,  which  the  careful  husband  was  just  commencing,  the 
sisters  bent  their  heads  with  a  gay  laugh,  and  tightening  the 
reins,  away  they  flew  like  two  beautiful  birds.  A  shower  of 
rain  had  fallen  an  hour  before,  and  whole  strings  of  large 
liquid  crystals,  clung  quiveringly  to  every  spear  of  grass, 
while  many  a  big  drop  lay  snugly  nestled  in  a  flower-bell ; 
and  every  now  and  then  a  breath  of  pure  fresh  air  came 
sweeping  by,  and  scattered  thousands  of  the  bright  tremblers 
from  the  trees  that  overhung  the  wayside.  The  sky  was 
beautiful  and  clear,  and  the  air  delightfully  refreshing ;  and, 
as  the  two  ladies  reined  in  their  gay  palfreys  and  paused  to 


GRACE    LINDEN.  45 

listen  to  the  bursts  of  music  issuing  from  the  woodlands,  they 
would  catch  the  gladsome  strain,  and  echo  it  back  with  a  true 
joyousness  that  proclaimed  their  sisterhood  with  the  spirits  of 
the  green  wood.  On  they  went,  now  prancing  along  under 
the  laden  trees  and  catching  the  rain-drops  as  they  fell,  now 
entering  a  green  pasture  and  galloping  upon  the  turf,  and 
again  emerging  into  the  high-road,  and  pursuing  their  way 
at  a  pace  more  sedate  and  dignified. 

"  Grace,  do  you  recollect  your  old  tormentor,  Dick  Grouse  ? " 
inquired  Lizzy  Sommers,  as  the  two  sisters  slackened  the  rein, 
and  proceeded  amblingly  over  a  very  rough  road. 

"  It  would  be  impossible  to  forget  him,"  answered  Grace, 
with  a  slight  involuntary  shudder.  "  I  never  should  have 
dreamed  of  the  existence  of  such  malice  if  I  had  not  seen  it 
displayed." 

"  He  lives  yonder,"  returned  Lizzy,  pointing  to  a  low,  board 
hovel,  set  down  in  the  midst  of  a  potato-patch. 

"  He  ! "  and  Grace  involuntarily  turned  her  horse's  head. 
"  What  a  coward,  Grace ! "  and  Lizzy,  smiling  over  her 
shoulder,  cantered  gaily  forward. 

In  a  moment  Grace  was  beside  her.  "  Now  slower,  Lizzy, 
but  do  not  look  in  the  direction  of  the  house ;  I  always  have 
a  horrible  feeling  connected  with  my  thoughts  of  that  man ; 
and  there  is  not  a  being  on  earth  I  should  be  so  much  afraid 
to  meet  alone.  There  is  something  fearfully  supernatural  in 
all  my  notions  concerning  him,  for  I  once  actually  believed 
him  an  evil  spirit  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood.  But  how  came 
he  here  ?  and  how  does  he  live  ? " 

"  He  haunted  the  village  until  grown  to  manhood,  some 
times  spending  a  year  or  two  away,  but  always  returning, 
until  about  the  time  you  went  south ;  he  then  disappeared, 
and  nothing  was  seen  of  him  for  a  long  time.  About  three 
years  ago  he  came  to  Alderbrook,  bringing  with  him  a  coarse 
virago  of  a  woman  whom  he  called  his  wife,  and  a  child  then 
six  months  old.  They  lived  in  the  village,  and  supported 
.hemselves  by  any  little  jobs  of  work  which  they  could  get, 
until  about  a  year  ago,  when  the  wife  died.  Grouse  behaved 


46  GRACE    LINDEN. 

like  a  brute  upon  the  occasion,  openly  rejoicing  at  his  free» 
dom." 

"  Horrible ! "  exclaimed  Grace,  glancing  around  her  in 
alarm,  for  now  the  hut  was  very  near. 

"  Oh !  it  was  inhuman !  but  then,  Gracey,  if  you  could 
have  seen  the  poor  motherless  baby,  clinging  around  his  neck 
—  forlorn  little  thing  as  it  was !  you  would  have  respected 
him  some,  (you  could  n't  have  helped  it,)  for  the  child's  sake. 
He  could  not  have  been  so  loved  by  such  an  innocent  crea 
ture,  if  there  were  not  a  little  humanity  yet  within  him." 

Grace  mused  a  few  moments.  "  Lizzy,  I  cannot  altogether 
divest  myself  of  the  idea  that  I  have  injured  that  man.  I 
was  a  silly  child,  scared  at  my  own  shadow,  and  it  may  be 
that  I  deprived  him  of  his  only  honorable  means  of  subsist 
ence.  I  believe  people  are  as  often  driven  into  crime  as  re 
formed  by  injudicious  punishment." 

"  It  may  be,  Grace,  but  what  better  could  have  been  done  ? 
He  was  thoroughly  bad,  even  then,  and  I  have  never  heard 
of  his  performing  a  good  action  in  his  life.  The  only 
redeeming  trait  in  his  character  is  an  all-absorbing  love  for 
his  child." 

"  What  has  become  of  the  child  ?  " 

"  Several  of  the  neighbors  offered  to  take  it  and  bring  it  up 
respectably ;  but  he  ridiculed  the  idea  of  not  being  able  to 
care  for  his  own,  and  removed  at  once  to  this  hut.  But  look, 
there  is  some  one  with  him ! " 

Grace  had  no  need  to  look,  to  know  that  Dick  Grouse  was 
near,  for  she  heard  a  volley  of  oaths  that  she  firmly  believed 
could  issue  from  no  other  lips.  Before  the  door  of  the  hut 
stood  a  horse,  and  beside  it,  Grouse,  holding  the  half-mounted 
owner  of  it  by  the  collar. 

"  Let  go  ! "  said  the  stranger,  soothingly,  "  let  go  !  there 
would  be  no  use  in  my  staying  any  longer,  and  there  are  a 
dozen  other  patients  waiting  for  me." 

The  two  ladies  shuddered  at  the  answer,  so  full  of  blas 
phemy,  so  replete  with  agony — and  hurried  on  a  few  steps, 
then  paused  and  looked  back.  The  physician,  for  such  he 


GRACE    LINDEN.  47 

evidently  was,  had  shaken  the  hand  of  the  desperate  man 
from  his  collar,  and  was  now  trying  to  free  the  reins  from  his 
maniacal  grasp. 

"  I  tell  you,  Grouse,  I  cannot  help  her !  You  should  have 
called  me  earlier." 

Again  the  wretched  Grouse  renewed  his  oaths  and  threats, 
and  the  physician,  evidently  out  of  all  patience,  was  raising 
the  butt  of  his  whip  over  his  knuckles,  when  a  sharp,  shrill 
cry,  as  of  intense  suffering,  issued  from  the  interior  of  the 
hut. 

"  Come,  in  God's  name,  come  ! "  exclaimed  Grouse,  "  she 
shall  not  die  ! "  And  dropping  the  reins  he  hurried  into  the 
hut,  while  the  physician,  relieved,  turned  hastily  homeward. 
The  two  sisters,  pale  with  fear,  looked  into  each  other's  faces, 
as  though  each  expected  the  other  to  speak  first. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  said  Grace,  in  a  low  hoarse  voice ;  "  we 
ought  to  go  ;  the  child  is  sick,  and  Doctor  Clay  said  he  could 
do  nothing  to  help  her." 

"  But  he  is  such  a  horrible  man,  Grace." 

"  He  wouldn't  hurt  us,  if  he  knew  we  came  in  kindness." 

"  How  dreadfully  he  talked  ! " 

"  Dreadfully,  but  the  poor  child — " 

Another  piercing  shriek  interrupted  her,  and  Grace  sprang 
from  her  horse.  Instantly  Lizzy  followed  ;  and,  leaving  the 
two  animals  to  nibble  the  fresh  grass,  they  turned  to  the  hut. 

The  first  object  that  met  their  view  on  entering  the  door, 
was  a  little  child  three  or  four  years  old,  tossing  upon  a  mis 
erable  substitute  for  a  bed,  in  a  burning,  raging  fever ;  it  was 
flinging  its  little  arms  about  its  head,  and  rolling  from  side  to 
side  in  agony.  A  few  feet  from  the  bed,  stood  Grouse,  with 
glaring  eyes,  set  teeth,  and  folded  arms,  the  clenched  fingers 
almost  buried  in  the  flesh,  and  his  features  distorted  to  a  dread 
ful  expression ;  nor  did  he  turn  his  head,  nor  move  an  eye 
lash,  until  Grace  had  laid  her  cool  hand  upon  the  forehead  of 
the  child.  Then  he  bounded  forward  like  a  tiger. 

"  Away  !  away  !  would  you  kill  my  child  ?  " 

"  No !  I  am  come  to  help  her,  if  I  can,"  said  Grace,  softly. 


43  GRACE    LINDEN. 

"  Help  her !  no  !  no  !  /know  that  smooth  voice.  I  have 
seen  Grace  Linden  before.  Help  !  ha !  ha !  ha  ! " 

Grace  shuddered,  and  every  nerve  quivered  with  irresisti 
ble  fear;  but  she  passed  the  hand  soothingly  over  the  child's 
limbs,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  You  would  help  her,  as  you  helped  her  father.  Oh  !  you 
do  good  gloriously  ! " 

"  Mr.  Grouse,"  exclaimed  Lizzy,  stepping  firmly  forward, 
"  if  you  have  any  love  for  your  child,  you  will  cease  this. 
We  came  to  do  her  good,  but  if  we  meet  with  hard  words  or 
ill-treatment  from  you,  we  leave  her  to  her  fate." 

Grouse  was  bending  over  the  bed,  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
child  put  up  her  little  arms  as  though  she  recognized  him. 
He  was  instantly  subdued. 

"  Leave  her !  Don't,  don't  leave  her !  My  poor  little  Nan 
nie  !  Oh  !  help  her  if  you  can." 

"  We  will ! "  exclaimed  Grace,  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes, 
at  the  sound  of  his  altered  voice,  "  we  will  do  all  we  can  for 
her." 

Lizzy  had  employed  the  few  moments  that  had  elapsed 
since  her  entrance,  in  taking  a  survey  of  the  little  hut.  She 
found  it  as  she  expected,  destitute  of  everything  most  needed. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  staying,"  she  began  ;  but  suddenly  she 
paused  in  fright,  for  the  manner  of  Grouse  became  furious ; 
"  but  we  will  come  back  and  bring  what  is  necessary." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  You  think  her  grave-clothes  are  necessary  ! 
But  she  shall  not  have  them  yet.  A  shroud  for  her!  Her 
so  young  ?  Oh  !  I  meant  no  suffering,  no  harm,  no  wrong 
should  ever  come  to  her  !  My  poor,  poor  Nannie  ! ' 

The  wretched  man  crouched  upon  the  floor,  like  a  wounded 
dog,  and  groaned  aloud. 

"  7  will  stay ! "  said  Grace,  in  a  low,  half-hesitating  tone. 
Then  she  added,  more  cheerfully, 

"  Hurry  home,  Lizzy,  and  send  Frank  with  fresh  linen, 
and  —  everything  that  is  needed  —  you  will  know  what. 
And,  Lizzy,  ask  Frank  to  bring  Doctor  Furman ;  he  will  help 
her  if  anybody  can." 


G.RACE  LINDEN.  49 

"  Now,  God  bless  you,  Grace  Linden  ! "  exclaimed  Grouse, 
in  a  subdued  tone,  "  if  you  had  made  me  ten  times  the  villain 
that  I  am,  God  bless  you  for  this  ! " 

"  Will  you  help  my  sister  to  her  horse  ? "  asked  Grace 
quietly. 

Grouse  hurried  to  the  door,  but  Lizzy  recoiled  from  his 
touch,  and  mounted  without  assistance. 

"  Ride  for  life,  dear  Lizzy  ! "  said  Grace  from  the  doorway. 

The  child  screamed,  and  the  answer  was  lost ;  for  Grace 
was  alarmed  at  the  rough  handling  of  the  frightened  father. 

"  I  shall  need  some  warm  water,  Mr.  Grouse,"  said  Grace, 
as  soon  as  the  paroxysm  ceased,  "  and  then  will  you  please  to 
bring  me  a  tub,  and  soap,  and  towels  ?  We  must  try  to  cool 
this  terrible  fever ;  poor  child !  her  flesh  seems  on  fire.  In 
the  mean  time,  I  will  bathe  her  temples  in  cold  water  if  you 
will  bring  me  a  basin." 

Grace  spoke  in  those  calm,  quiet  tones,  which  are  so  puis 
sant  in  subduing  madness,  and  poor  Grouse  performed  her 
bidding  with  the  submissive  simplicity  of  a  little  child.  He 
listened  to  every  word,  watched  every  look,  and  obeyed  the 
slightest  direction  to  the  letter ;  starting  at  the  child's  screams 
as  though  every  pang  had  been  his  own,  but  only  bending  his 
eager  eye  on  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  turning  away,  as 
though  satisfied  that  she  was  in  better  hands  than  his.  When 
Grace  had  bathed  poor  little  Nannie's  aching  limbs,  and 
smoothed  her  hair,  and  beaten  up  and  spread  anew  her  little 
cot,  cooling  the  linen  in  the  doorway,  she  laid  her  down 
gently ;  and,  fanning  her  with  a  fresh  green  bough  which 
Grouse  had  brought  her,  the  little  sufferer  was  soon  in  a 
troubled  slumber.  When  the  miserable  father  perceived  the 
effect  of  Grace's  care,  he  crept  cautiously  to  the  bedside,  and 
crouching  upon  the  floor,  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees, 
and  his  chin  on  both  hands,  he  gazed  long  and  fixedly  upon 
the  sleeper.  At  last  he  turned  to  Grace. 

"  You  have  wronged  me,  Grace  Linden,  and  I  you  ;  but  if 
you  knew  all,  you  would  never — "  and  he  pointed  to  the  bed. 

"  If  I  have  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  do  you  a  wrong," 
5 


50  GRACE    LINDEN. 

answered  Grace,  feelingly,  "  it  was  unintentional,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  If  it  is  not  too  late  now  to  remedy  it — " 

"  It  is  too  late  ! "  growled  Grouse,  sternly. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  done  in  the  person  of  your  child," 
faltered  Grace,  timidly ;  for  there  is  nothing  that  makes  us 
such  cowards  as  the  slightest  consciousness  of  having  per 
formed  a  reprehensible  act. 

"  Ay !  save  my  child,  my  poor  little  Nannie,  and  I  will  be 
your  slave  —  your  dog,  to  do  your  bidding  while  I  live. 
There  is  nothing,  Grace  Linden,  nothing,  that  I  will  not  do 
for  you,  if  you  make  Nannie  live." 

He  paused  a  few  moments,  and  then  began  brokenly  — 

"  You  were  a  child,  only  a  child,  and  could  not  know  what 
you  did.  It  was  the  fault  of  others  —  they  should  have  seen 
that  the  poor  were  not  trampled  on,  and  driven  to  theft,  and  — 
and  every  crime.  No,  Grace,  you  were  not  so  bad,  you  did  n't 
mean  to  ruin  poor  Nannie,  and  I  have  wronged  you." 

Grace  thought  the  man  was  going  mad,  and  she  fixed  her 
eyes  on  him  apprehensively,  repeating  after  him,  "  To  ruin 
Nannie?" 

"  Yes  !  to  ruin  her  —  to  make  us  glad  to  put  her  in  the 
grave.  Oh  !  I  did  not  hate  you  without  a  reason,  Grace  Lin 
den —  but  that  is  passed,  all  passed,  and  you  will  save  my 
own  poor  little  Nannie  ;  you  will  save  her,  won't  you  ? " 

"If  I  can ;  but  of  what  other  Nannie  have  you  been 
talking?" 

Grouse  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "  What  other  Nannie  ? 
What  one  but  her  that  they  drove  into  the  street  to  make 
room  for  you  —  her  that  — " 

"  I  never  heard  of  it,  Mr.  Grouse." 

The  face  of  Grace  vouched  for  the  truth  of  her  words ;  and 
Grouse,  after  being  a  little  urged,  proceeded  to  explain  to  her 
the  cause  of  his  original  hatred.  Ho  was  not  very  explicit ; 
but  Grace  gathered  enough  to  account  for  the  infinite  pleasure 
Dick  Grouse  had  seemed  to  take  in  tormenting  her,  and  to 
free  him,  partially,  at  least,  from  the  charge  of  unprovoked 
malice.  The  boy's  parents,  being  both  drunkards,  the  children 


GRACE    LINDEN.  51 

often  suffered  for  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  Dick  and  his 
elder  sister  Nannie,  were  at  last  glad  to  gain  situations  in  the 
factory  of  Mr.  Russel.  It  is  easy  to  be  believed,  however, 
that  they  were  no  favorites,  and  when  Mrs.  Linden  wished 
employment  for  two  of  her  children,  it  is  not  strange  that  Mr. 
Russel  made  a  vacancy  in  favor  of  Grace  and  at  the  expense 
of  Nannie.  The  sister  of  Dick  Grouse  was  then  nearly 
fifteen,  indolent,  careless,  and  vicious ;  and,  as  she  could  not 
obtain  a  situation  in  a  respectable  family,  her  course  was  from 
that  time  downward.  This  tale  was  told  brokenly,  sometimes 
in  piteous  tones,  sometimes  with  harsh  words  and  a  wolfish 
expression  of  countenance  ;  but  Grace  discovered  the  iron 
that  had  been  cankering  in  the  man's  soul  his  life  long,  the 
ban  of  society  brought  by  a  parent's  crimes  !  Oh !  that  she 
had  sooner  known  all  this  !  Even  as  a  child  she  might  have 
saved  a  world  of  wrong.  Her  heart  grew  sad  as  she  sat  in 
that  gloomy  hovel,  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  perhaps,  and 
in  the  company  of  one,  not  only  sinning  but  sinned  against, 
and,  as  she  now  believed,  by  her  own  self. 

Oh  !  glad  was  Grace  Linden  when  her  brother  arrived  with 
all  the  little  sick-room  comforts,  prepared  by  her  mother  and 
Lizzy.  And  glad,  too,  was  she  to  see  the  wrist  of  the  suf 
ferer  spanned  by  the  fingers  of  good  Doctor  Furman  ;  for  she 
knew  that  if  man's  skill  could  avail  anything,  little  Nannie 
Grouse  would  yet  be  saved.  The  kind  physician  advised 
Grace  to  return  home,  and  leave  the  patient  to  his  care  ;  but 
the  proposal  seemed  such  a  startling  one  to  Grouse,  that  she 
concluded  to  remain  and  keep  watch  with  her  brother  during 
the  night.  In  the  morning  the  fever  was  somewhat  abated, 
and  little  Nannie  seemed  quite  rational ;  for  she  put  up  her 
parched  lips  for  her  father's  kiss,  and  passed  her  hot  hand 
over  his  face,  winding  the  fingers  in  the  shaggy  beard,  and 
trying  to  win  a  smile  even  in  the  midst  of  her  suffering,  till 
the  boldly  vicious  man  was  fain  to  turn  away  his  face,  ashamed 
of  his  softness.  On  his  return  to  the  village,  Doctor  Furman 
engaged  a  careful  nurse  to  attend  upon  his  patient ;  and  every 
day  Grace  and  Lizzy  showed  their  kind,  cheerful  faces  at  the 


52  GRACE    LINDEN. 

hut,  until  the  child  was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  Long 
before  this,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  Grace  Linden  to 
recognize  her  old  enemy,  Dick  Grouse,  in  the  timid,  gentle, 
grateful  being,  who,  she  doubted  not,  would  go  the  world  over 
to  save  her ;  and  yet,  at  times,  a  strange  expression  flitted 
across  his  face,  an  expression  so  full  of  meaning,  and  such 
mysterious  moaning,  too,  that  Lizzy,  and  sometimes  Frank, 
thought  it  boded  no  good.  But  Grace  was  sure  the  wolf  was 
tamed  ;  and  when  she  spoke  of  it  at  home,  Sommers  laughed, 
and  professed  his  implicit  belief  in  the  veritable  history  of 
"  Beauty  and  the  Beast."  For  more  than  a  week  before  little 
Nannie's  nurse  was  dismissed,  Grouse  went  out  in  search  of 
employment,  and  when  he  obtained  it,  set  himself  to  work 
industriously,  saying  to  all  who  rallied  him  on  his  improved 
habits,  that  he  had  need  of  money.  As  soon  as  the  child  had 
recovered,  he  brought  her  in  his  arms  one  day  to  Mr.  Linden's 
door,  and  very  humbly  begged  of  Grace  to  afford  her  protec 
tion  and  shelter  during  a  short  absence.  "  And,"  he  added, 
struggling  with  some  almost  overpowering  emotion,  "  and  if  I 
never  return,  whatever  may  chance,  Grace  Linden,  oh,  do  not 
let  her  starve  !  My  poor  little  Nannie  never  wronged  you." 

Grace  accepted  the  charge,  and  gave  her  word  that  the 
child  should  be  cared  for  while  she  lived ;  and  the  strange 
man  went  away  grateful  and  satisfied. 

"  Be  sure  that  you  do  not  fail  us,"  said  Grace  Linden  to 
Mr.  Sommers,  as  she  parted  from  him  at  the  hall  door ;  "  and 
bring  Charley.  His  little  eyes  will  lose  none  of  their  sparkle 
by  being  kept  open  one  evening." 

"  You  must  convince  mamma  of  that,"  said  Sommers. 
"  We  careless  fathers  will  believe  anything  you  tell  us." 

"  Well,  I  shall  expect  you  and  Lizzy,  if  '  leetle  pet '  is  con 
fined  to  his  crib  ;"  and  Grace  tripped  lightly  up-stairs  to  her 
own  room,  and,  tired  with  her  long  ramble,  flung  herself  upon 
a  couch  beneath  the  window.  Grace  was  in  no  particularly 
musing  mood,  but  the  tide  of  thought  is  never  still ;  and 
numerous  and  hope-fraught  visions  came  clustering  thick 
around  her,  though  in  none  of  them  was  there  room  for  self. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  58 

Her  parents  were  happy  —  so  happy  that  their  hearts  were 
constantly  gushing  forth  with  thankfulness,  and  their  joy  was 
told  in  words  that  meant  not  to  tell  it  —  words  of  the  most 
eloquent  simplicity.  Then  Lizzy,  the  proud  young  wife,  and 
prouder  mother,  could  not  have  admitted  another  drop  into 
her  cup,  for  it  was  already  brimming  over ;  and  Frank,  though 
performing  the  innumerable  duties  of  a  country  editor,  and 
swelling  his  tiny  capital  by  immeasurably  small  particles,  yet 
found  time  to  be  the  most  heartily  gladsome  of  the  whole 
family.  Then  Grace  thought  of  Mary,  her  quiet,  gentle, 
affectionate  sister-in-law;  and  she  sprang  lightly  from  her 
couch,  and,  opening  a  drawer,  began  hastily  turning  over  a 
bundle  of  laces. 

"  Yes  !  she  ought  to  wear  caps,"  thought  Grace,  "  pretty 
little  dress  caps ;  they  are  so  becoming  to  her  sweet  face.  I 
will  make  one  this  very  evening." 

The  door-bell  rang  just  as  Grace  was  deciding  whether  the 
cap  should  have  a  little  crown  to  cover  the  braid,  or  pass  over 
the  top  of  the  head  and  fall  on  the  neck  at  the  sides,  leaving 
the  hair  more  uncovered. 

"  Too  early  for  Sommers  and  Lizzy,"  she  thought,  pulling 
out  her  watch. 

Old  Janet  tapped  at  her  door,  and  put  in  her  head.  "  Mr. 
Russel,  Miss ;"  and  little  Nannie  Grouse  squeezed  in  beside 
her,  repeating  "  Mittah  Ushil ! " 

Grace  started,  and  the  whole  box  of  laces  fell  from  her  hand. 

"  Who  is  it,  Janet  ?  You  have  made  a  mistake !  he  did 
not  call  himself —  that? " 

Janet  began  to  protest  that  he  did  call  himself  that;  and 
that  she  heard  just  as  plain  as  day ;  and  that  (this  was  said 
in  a  lower  key,  however)  some  folks  could  hear  a  great  deal 
better  than  some  other  folks ;  but  the  appearance  of  Frank 
cut  her  short. 

"  Your  old  flame,  Russel,  Grace  —  in  the  greatest  tease  to 
see  you  —  could  scarcely  say  hoiv  d'ye  do  to  me.  But,  bless 
me  !  how  pale  you  are  !  Water,  Janet !  Bring  some  water  ! 
quick ! " 

5* 


61  GRACE    LINDEN. 

Grace  put  away  the  proffered  cup,  and,  bending  her  head 
upon  her  cold,  white  hands,  only  murmured, 

"  To  come  now,  when  I  was  so,  so  happy !  it  is  too  much  ! " 

"  Don't  go  down,  Gracey,  dear !  Don't  try ! "  whispered 
Frank,  drawing  near.  "  There  is  something  here  that  I  do 
not  understand,  but  you  must  tell  me  at  another  time.  Now 
I  will  make  an  excuse  for  you.  I  will  say  you  are  ill  —  en 
gaged  —  anything  you  like  ;  and  tell  him  to  come  again,  or 
intimate  that  you  will  be  always  invisible.  Don't  try  to  go 
down,  Gracey ! " 

And  Grace  thought  at  first  that  she  would  not.  Then 
came  all  her  womanly  pride  to  aid  her ;  and  she  would  not, 
for  the  world,  that  Russel  should  suspect  her  of  being  less 
indifferent  than  himself.  She  immediately  arose,  and  wreath 
ing  the  long  masses  of  hair  that  she  had  allowed  to  fall  over 
her  shoulders,  into  a  knot,  attempted  to  confine  it ;  but  the 
bodkin  slipped  from  her  trembling  fingers,  and  Frank  was 
obliged,  though  somewhat  awkwardly,  to  act  the  part  of  tire 
woman. 

"  Now,  can  you  assist  me  farther,  Frank  ?  Put  a  pin  in 
that  lace,  close  to  the  top  of  the  dress  —  how  rumpled  ! " 

And  Grace  passed  her  clammy  hands  over  the  folds  of  her 
flowing  skirt,  to  see  that  each  one  was  in  place. 

"  Never  mind,  Gracey,  it  is  well  enough  ;  and  if  there  was 
but  a  little  more  color  in  your  cheek,  I  have  never  seen  you 
so  pretty.  Now  look  in  the  glass." 

"  I  don't  care  to  be  pretty,  just  now,  Frank ;  that  makes  no 
difference.  But  if  Russel  should  see  me  carelessly  dressed, 
or  less  cheerful  than  I  used  to  be,  he  would  suspect  what,  my 
dear  brother,  I  do  not  like  to  have  him  know  —  that  he  has 
caused  me  sorrow." 

"  But  he  has,  Grace  !  has  he  not  ?  Oh  !  why  have  you 
not  told  us  this  before  ?  " 

"  It  was  nothing  —  was  not  worth  telling.  Come  now  with 
me,  Frank,  and  leave  me  at  the  door." 

The  young  man  took  his  sister's  arm  in  his,  but  as  he  per 
ceived  she  walked  totteringly,  he  clasped  her  cold  hand 


GRACE    LINDEN.  55 

closely,  and  wound  his  arm  around  her  waist.  "  Grace,  my 
poor  sister,  this  will  be  too  much  for  you  ! " 

Grace  pressed  forward.  Slowly,  step  after  step,  as  though 
joining  in  a  funeral  march,  they  descended  the  stairs ;  the 
strong  arm  of  the  brother  alone  preventing  her  from  falling. 
Poor  Grace  !  Her  heart  was  the  grave  of  its  own  crushed, 
withered,  but  now  intensely  alive  feelings.  They  drew  near 
the  door,  and  Frank  paused,  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 
'  Grace,  let  me  see  this  man  !  If  his  perfidy  has  occasioned 
all  this,  it  is  fiendish  in  him  to  come  to  you  now.  As  your 
brother,  your  best  friend  and  protector,  I  should  and  must 
shield  you.  Indeed,  Grace,  you  are  not  equal  to  this  severe 
task.  Let  me  seek  an  explanation." 

"  Never  !  no  !  no  ! " 

"  Well  then,  I  will  not ;  but  don't  see  him  to-night  —  don't, 
darling  !  You  are  so  pale  and  miserable  ! " 

Grace  pressed  both  hands  upon  her  temples,  as  if  their 
throbbing  would  madden  her ;  and  then  leaned  her  head 
against  her  brother's  shoulder  and  sobbed  without  restraint. 
Frank  bore  her  from  the  door,  and,  without  opposition,  guided 
her  back  to  her  room. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  thought  of  these  things,  and 
now  they  come  upon  me  so  suddenly  ! "  she  whispered,  as  he 
imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her  dewy  forehead.  Bitter  were  the 
thoughts  of  Frank  Linden,  as  he  turned  from  his  suffering 
sister  to  encounter  the  expected  cold  eye,  and  civil  speeches 
of  the  accomplished  man  of  the  world. 

Russel  was  examining  a  port-folio  of  pencil  sketches  as  he 
entered,  and  the  centred  light  of  his  fine  eye,  and  the  qi.iet 
smile  lurking  at  the  corners  of  his  exquisitely  moulded  mouth, 
bespoke  a  complacent  happiness,  strikingly  contrasted  with 
the  wretchedness  he  had  occasioned.  A  joyous  smile  broke 
from  his  parted  lips  and  flashed  over  his  whole  face  like  a 
sunbeam,  when  the  door  opened  ;  and  then  a  look  of  disap 
pointment  followed,  so  deep  and  heartfelt  that  Frank  was 
sorely  puzzled.  He  had  heard  neither  side  of  the  story  yet. 
and  could  only  read  faces. 


56  GRACE    LINDEN. 

"  My  sister  has  taken  a  long  walk  and  is  very  much 
fatigued  to-night.  She  wishes  me  to  make  her  excuses." 

Russel  looked  still  more  disappointed  —  somewhat  dis 
tressed  even. 

"  If  she  could  afford  me  a  few  moments  —  my  business  is 
important." 

"  Another  time  perhaps  :  now  she  is  resting  and  I  would 
not,  on  any  account,  have  her  disturbed." 

"  She  is  not  ill,  I  trust?"  and  Russel  looked  so  anxious,  so 
troubled,  so  unlike  his  usually  proud  self,  that  Frank's  resent 
ment  began  to  give  way,  and  he  assured  him  that  she  was 
quite  well  —  stronger  and  healthier  even  than  when  he  last 
saw  her.  Russel  said  no  more,  but  drew  a  small  parcel  from 
his  pocket,  and  writing  a  few  lines  on  the  cover  delivered  it 
to  young  Linden,  with  the  expressed  hope  that  it  might  soon 
find  its  way  to  his  sister's  hand.  When  Frank  entered  her 
apartment,  Grace  was  seated  by  the  window,  leaning  her  fore 
head  against  the  raised  sash,  and  gazing  upon  a  retreating 
figure,  now  almost  invisible  in  the  grey  twilight. 

"And  he  will  never  come  again?"  she  asked,  turning 
suddenly. 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  here  is  something  he  left  you;"  and  Frank 
placed  the  package  in  her  hands. 

Grace  clutched  at  it  convulsively  and  drew  it  close  to  her 
bosom  ;  and  then  she  gasped  for  breath,  and  attempted  to  tear 
away  the  slight  fold  of  lace  that  shaded  her  neck,  as  though 
it  had  been  that  which  so  oppressed  her.  Frank  was  alarmed 
and  was  about  to  call  for  assistance,  but  she  arrested  his  de 
sign. 

"  No  —  no  !  I  am  better  now.  It  was  only  a  momentary 
struggle  and  will  be  the  last.  I  shall  be  your  own  Grace 
again  in  a  few  days  —  as  happy  as  I  was  before  this  terrible 
interruption.  He  did  right  to  return  my  letters,  and  I  ought 
to  thank  him  for  it.  I  suppose  there  is  no  danger  of  his 
coming  again." 

Frank  thought  not,  and  with  a  few  soothing  words  —  words 


GRACE    LINDEN.  57 

so  beautiful  falling  from  a  brother's  lips  —  he  left  her  to 
herself. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  murmured  Grace,  "  and  we  are  parted 
forever  and  ever.  Oh,  why  did  he  come  to  disturb  my  hap 
piness  ? " 

Hour  after  hour  passed  by,  and  still  Grace  Linden  sat  in 
that  same  position ;  her  white  hands  buried  in  her  loosened 
hair,  and  her  cheek  pressed  closely  upon  the  table  before  her 
Frank  came  in,  and,  folding  her  in  his  arms,  gave  her  the  good 
night  kiss,  and  Mary  pressed  her  soft,  loving  lips  upon  the 
aching  forehead;  but  she  scarce  knew  it.  Midnight  drew 
near ,  the  candle  flickered  and  yielded  up  its  light ;  and  the 
moon  went  down  behind  the  trees,  leaving  the  chamber  in 
utter  darkness.  Still  Grace  moved  not :  it  was  her  hour  of 
utter  abandonment.  Morning  came,  and  Grace  slept — her 
head  resting  on  her  crossed  arms,  and  her  face  buried  in  the 
sleeves  of  her  robe.  Again  and  again  there  came  a  light  tap 
at  the  door,  and  a  pitying  face  would  look  in  for  a  moment ; 
but  despair  has  a  deep  sleep,  and  this  was  not  easily  broken. 
At  last  Grace  moved,  and  murmuring  her  brother's  name, 
awoke.  She  looked  around  her  with  a  wild,  troubled  expres 
sion,  as  of  one  haunted  by  the  memory  of  a  fearful  dream. 

"  Oh,  that  it  could  be  a  dream ! "  she  murmured,  but  her 
hand  fell  upon  a  little  parcel  in  her  lap,  and  she  remembered 
all  —  all  her  agony  and  all  her  hopelessness.  Slowly  she 
raised  the  package  and  unwound  the  string,  and  as  a  number 
of  letters  fell  from  the  envelope,  she  pushed  them  from  her 
to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  shaded  her  eyes  from  them 
as  though  the  sight  was  painful  to  her.  Then  she  mechani 
cally  smoothed  the  wrapper  that  she  had  at  first  crumpled  in 
her  hand  ;  examined  the  seal,  bearing  simply  the  letters  "  H. 
R.,"  and  the  superscription,  his  own  hand- writing,  until  finally 
her  eye  fell  upon  some  pencilings,  and  wandered  over  them 
at  first  quite  vacantly.  In  a  moment  she  raised  her  hand  as 
though  she  would  brush  away  the  haze  that  obscured  her 
vision,  and  read,  although  the  strange  words  half  bewildered 
her: 


58  GRACE    LINDEN. 

"  I  would  give  the  world,  dear  Grace,  to  see  you  to-night, 
for  I  have  everything  to  say.  But  this  package  will  explain 
all  —  it  contains  our  intercepted  letters.  A  miserable  wretch, 
touched  by  your  kindness,  has  confessed  the  fraud  and  deliv 
ered  them  up.  Forgive,  dear  Grace,  my  credulity,  though 
even  then  I  shall  not  forgive  myself.  H.  R." 

The  sun  had  been  up  nearly  two  hours,  when  Lizzy  Som- 
mers  found  her  sister  extended  upon  the  floor  senseless,  with 
the  paper  crushed  in  her  two  hands,  and  her  white  lips  parted 
with  the  first  involuntary  expression  of  surprise.  She  had 
borne  her  sorrows  well,  and  but  few  had  even  suspected  their 
existence  ;  but  the  transition  was  too  sudden,  too  unexpected, 
and  her  power  of  endurance  was  spent.  In  a  few  moments 
her  heart  palpitated  wildly  ;  a  crimson  flushed  her  cheeks ;  a 
light  broke  from  her  eye,  and  throwing  herself  on  the  friendly 
bosom  of  her  sister,  Lizzy  was  for  the  first  time  made  ac 
quainted  with  all  her  weakness  and  all  her  strength. 

Russel  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  pardon,  for  if  his 
rich,  manly  voice,  had  pleaded  in  tones  less  winning,  and 
spoken  words  less  delicately  tender,  and  if  those  deep,  soulful 
eyes,  had  looked  into  hers  with  but  a  tithe  of  their  thrilling 
earnestness,  there  was  that  in  the  heart  of  Grace  that  would 
have  forgiven  a  greater  offence  than  being  convinced  of  her 
untruth  when  there  remained  no  longer  a  foothold  for  faith. 
Grace  had  not  loved  Russel  for  the  power  which  she  had 
gained  over  him  ;  she  had  never  even  dreamed  how  great  that 
power  was,  and  testing  it,  by  way  of  learning,  she  would  have 
deemed  degrading  to  them  both.  It  was  his  rare  intellectual 
endowments,  his  high-toned  character,  his  conscious  manli 
ness,  that  had  at  first  won  her ;  and  although  other  and 
tenderer  qualities  had  conspired  to  make  him  dearer  than  she 
could  have  known,  had  not  sorrow  unveiled  to  her  her  own 
secrets,  she  could  never  have  rested  so  securely  in  his  heart, 
had  that  manliness  ever  bent  too  low  beneath  the  weight  of 
passion.  He  had  poured  out  the  priceless  wealth  of  a  noble 
heart  at  her  feet  —  it  was  a  fit  offering,  and  it  could  not  be 
made  richer.  His  reason,  his  independence  were  his  own  : 


GRACE    LINDEN.  59 

hers,  as  far  as  their  guidance  and  support  were  needed,  but 
they  were  no  part  of  the  sacrifice.  Perhaps  it  might  have 
been  otherwise  had  Grace  loved  less  ;  men  have  often  yielded 
up  their  noblest  traits  of  character  to  womanly  caprice,  but 
never  to  womanly  love. 

Russel  and  Grace  had  so  much  to  talk  of,  so  many  little 
plans  to  frame  and  reframe,  and  so  many  more  interesting 
revelations  to  make,  that  it  was  several  days  before  she  was 
in  possession  of  the  facts  concerning  the  letters.  She  had, 
however,  found  time  to  read  all  his,  and  had  been  duly 
remorseful  on  finding  that  his  package  numbered  more  than 
hers,  and  that  several  of  them  bore  a  later  date. 

Soon  after  Russel's  departure  from  Alderbrookhe  had  found 
Grouse  in  abject  circumstances,  and,  thoroughly  conscious  of 
his  unworthiness,  he  had  been  generous  enough  to  employ 
him  in  several  petty  services  out  of  mere  charity.  Grouse 
had  nursed  the  hatred,  imbibed  in  boyhood,  for  all  those  who 
he  believed  had  influenced  for  ill  his  fortunes  ;  and  he  had 
brooded  over  his  wrongs  in  solitude  and  wretchedness,  until 
they  had  assumed  a  most  portentous  form,  and  swallowed  up 
every  other  consideration.  The  very  name  of  Russel  roused 
the  demon  within  him  ;  and,  but  for  the  bread  which  he  must 
have  to  keep  him  from  starving,  he  would  have  poured  forth 
his  pent-up  venom  without  measure.  As  it  was,  he  contented 
himself  with  petty  annoyances,  which  at  first  were  not  noticed. 
One  day,  however,  Russel  found  occasion  to  reprimand  him 
severely,  and  Grouse  went  away  angry  ;  but  driven  by  neces 
sity,  he  soon  returned,  and  pleaded  his  cause  so  effectually 
that  the  young  attorney  took  him  into  his  service  again.  It 
was  nearly  six  months  after  this,  that  Miss  Linden's  letters 
suddenly  ceased,  and  although  Grouse  was  employed  as  post 
boy  to  and  from  the  office,  he  had  been  so  faithful  in  other 
respects,  that  he  was  not  even  for  a  moment  suspected.  His 
position,  too,  shielded  him  ;  if  Russel  had  looked  for  villany, 
it  would  have  been  to  a  quarter  less  ignorant  and  degraded. 
As  for  Grouse,  he  had  evidently  laid  no  plan  for  injuring  his 
victims  ;  but  discovering  one  day,  accidentally,  to  whom  the 


60  GRACE    LINDEN. 

letters  were  addressed,  he  withheld  them  merely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  carrying  out  his  system  of  annoyance.  One  letter  of 
inquiry  addressed  to  Mr.  De  Vere,  and  another  to  Francis 
Linden,  shared  the  same  fate  ;  for  Grouse  had  been  too  long 
accustomed  to  read  upon  Grace's  letters,  "  Care  of  Monsieur 
De  Vere,"  not  to  understand  the  object  of  the  first,  and  the 
other  bore  the  name  of  Linden.  Russel,  however,  had  per 
severed  in  his  attempts  to  discover  the  cause  of  Miss  Linden's 
unaccountable  silence,  until  she  set  sail  for  France.  Then  he 
repeated,  but  in  a  tone  more  sad  than  bitter,  (men  learn  toler 
ance  by  living  long  with  mankind,)  "  ruined  by  her  ambition." 
He  caught  one  glimpse  of  her  from  a  position  whence  he 
could  not  be  recognized,  when  she  landed  in  New  York ;  but 
notwithstanding  the  truthful  expression  that  seemed  deepened 
even  on  her  still  beautiful  face,  her  easy  cheerfulness  only 
confirmed  his  belief.  He  thought  a  noble  spirit  had  been 
sacrificed ;  and  he  lost  all  confidence  in  the  truth  of  human 
nature,  even  while  he  learned  more  sincerely  to  pity  and  for 
give  its  follies. 

Grouse  threw  the  letters  into  an  old  trunk  that  had  been  his 
sister's,  and  therefore  was  preserved  with  a  strangely  tender 
carefulness.  He  had  never  thought  of  them  since,  except  to 
chuckle  in  private  over  his  successful  villany,  until  he  saw 
Grace  Linden  watching  by  the  side  of  his  sleeping  child. 
Gratitude  broke  up  the  dark,  bitter  fountains  of  hate,  and 
threw  a  smile  upon  his  heart  which  had  never  visited  it  be 
fore.  Then  he  resolved  to  make  all  the  restitution  in  his 
power,  though  he  little  knew  the  injury  he  had  done.  And 
often,  when  he  looked  upon  Grace  Linden  afterwards,  he 
exulted  in  the  thought  of  being  able  to  show,  in  some  degree, 
his  appreciation  of  the  kindness  which  almost  bewildered  him. 
As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  earn  a  little  sum  to  defray  travel 
ling  expenses,  notwithstanding  his  fear  of  deserved  punish 
ment,  he  started  in  search  of  his  wronged  master ;  and 
Russel,  more  inclined  to  reward  him  for  the  present,  than  to 
punish  him  for  the  past,  lost  no  time  in  repairing  to  Alder- 
brook. 


GRACE    LINDEN.  61 

Before  the  autumn  leaves  had  all  fallen,  there  were  rejoic 
ings  and  weeping  in  the  family  of  the  Lindens  ;  for  the  bridal 
festivities  were  only  the  precursor  of  a  sorrowful  separation. 

"  Why  not  build  a  little  villa,  and  have  one  home  for  us 
all,"  said  Sommers,  shaking  heartily  the  hand  of  his  brother- 
in-law.  "  The  world  you  are  bustling  in  will  never  reward 
you  for  half  your  labors." 

"  Suppose  my  labors  were  of  a  nature  to  reward  them 
selves?"  answered  RusseJ,  smiling. 

"  Pursue  them  then,  but  be  sure  never  to  look  beyond  your 
own  bosom  for  it.  I  have  but  little  faith  in  gratitude  en  masse; 
I  would  deal  with  the  individual." 

"  Ay,"  said  Frank,  unconsciously  moving  his  fingers  after 
the  fashion  of  a  compositor,  "  kind  deeds  do  sometimes  meet 
with  gratitude  when  they  assume  the  form  of  personal  favors  ; 
but  who  ever  heard  of  a  whole  state,  or  county,  or  village 
even,  being  grateful  for  the  most  disinterested  services  ?  " 

"  How  now,  Frank  ! "  exclaimed  Russel,  laughing.  "  What 
brother  editor  has  been  giving  you  a  specimen  of  his  talent 
at  blackguardism  this  morning  ? " 

"  Frank  is  right,  however,"  answered  Lizzy.  "  Only  think 
of  Dick  Grouse.  By  a  little  kindness,  without  positive  incon 
venience  to  herself,  Grace  has  secured  his  everlasting  grati 
tude.  She  might  have  built  a  hospital  for  sick  children,  (a 
dozen  of  them  for  that  matter!)  and  good,  generous-hearted 
people  might  have  enjoyed  its  benefits  without  feeling  the 
least  touch  of  an  emotion  so  pure  and  unselfish  as  animated 
Dick  Grouse  in  spite  of  his  degradation.  So  much  for  labor 
ing  for  the  public  ! " 

"  True,  Lizzy,"  began  Grace,  "  but  — " 

"  But !  No  —  no,  Grace  !  None  of  your  buts  now  ;  we 
all  know  what  is  coming.  These  young  brides  always  take 
their  cue  from  their  husbands  ;  but  wait,  Mr.  Russel,  till  she 
has  been  matronized  a  few  years  —  only  wait !  She  will  be 
as  positive  and  opinionated  as  any  of  us." 

44  Well,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,"  said  Grace,  gaily,  "  as 
6 


62  GRACE    LINDEN. 

long  as  Mr.  Eussel  looks  well  to  one  individual,  I  shall  not 
interfere  with  his  public  services,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  Recollect  that  the  individual  has  a  fee  to  pay,  however," 
answered  Russel,  "since  the  public  is  so  ungrateful." 

Our  newly-wedded  friends  took  their  departure  at  an  early 
day,  and  proceeded  to  the  city  of  Washington.  Russel  was 
now  deeply  engaged  with  public  affairs ;  and  Grace  entered 
with  a  greater  zest  into  his  plans,  and  encouraged  his  designs, 
because  she  found  him  actuated  by  true  patriotism,  and  knew 
that  his  honorable  spirit  would  never  stoop  to  the  petty  arti 
fices  of  manoeuvring  politicians. 

CHAPTER.    IV. EIGHT-AND-THIRTY. 

IT  was  a  scene  of  rare  brilliancy.  Large  mirrors  flashed 
back  the  blaze  of  the  glittering  chandeliers,  and  mimicked  on 
their  surface  the  varying  features  of  the  crowd  traversing  the 
magnificent  saloon.  There  were  noble  dames  in  jewelled 
tiaras  and  robes  of  every  description,  from  the  royal  ermine 
and  glossy  velvet,  with  its  rich,  heavy  folds,  to  the  silver  gos 
samer  floating  like  a  misty  veil  around  some  figure  of  rare 
etherialness.  Beauty  cast  its  spell  around,  and  wit  and  senti 
ment  sped  like  light-winged,  pearl-tipped  arrows,  flashing 
1  from  lips  all  familiar  with  the  elegant  artillery.  Brave,  high 
born  men,  bearing  honored  titles,  (men,  who  from  infancy  had 
looked  on  scenes  of  regal  grandeur,  and  become  so  familiar 
ized  with  the  gay,  trifling  pageantry,  as  to  act  their  parts 
perfectly  with  absent  thoughts,)  passed  up  and  down  the 
thronged  apartment,  and  bent  their  heads,  and  smiled,  and 
dropped  dull  words  that  passed  for  wisdom,  or  wise  ones  that 
no  one  appreciated,  with  a  courtly  air  that  disclaimed  kindred 
with  all  associations  below  the  level  of  the  palace. 

"  A  rare  masquerade  !  every  face  is  as  completely  en  masque. 
as  though  the  famous  iron  one  had  been  put  in  requisition  for 
all." 

So  spake  an  elegant  woman,  standing  in  the  recess  of  a 
window,  and  half  shaded  by  the  folds  of  crimson  drapery 


GRACE    LINDEN.  63 

from  the  gay  scene  on  which  she  commented.  She  seemed 
quite  at  home  amid  all  that  glitter,  and  yet  not  like  one  whose 
heart  was  in  it  very  deeply,  though  in  the  meridian  of  her 
days,  and  passing  lovely.  She  wore  a  robe  of  black  velvet, 
fitting  closely  so  as  to  display  the  beautiful  contour  of  he. 
form ;  and  her  head-dress  was  of  fleecy  whiteness,  looped  by 
a  single  diamond  set  with  rubies,  and  surmounted  by  a  mag 
nificent  plume  bending  beneath  its  own  rich  weight  to  the 
shoulder.  Her  ornaments  were  few  and  tastefully  arranged. 
We  have  said  she  looked  like  one  whose  heart  was  not  with 
the  gay  scene  in  which  she  mingled ;  for  her  large,  humid 
eyes  had  in  them  a  meek  lovingness,  and  sometimes  a  pen 
sive  abstraction,  as  though  the  shadow  of  serious  thought  had 
fallen  early  upon  them  and  mingled  with  their  light  forever. 
She  received  gracefully  the  flattering  attentions  of  the  crowd 
from  which  the  heavy  curtain  had  not  been  able  to  shield  her ; 
for  beauty  is  a  born  queen  and  counts  her  vassals  every 
where  ;  and,  the  wife  of  the  American  ambassador  (such  was 
the  rank  of  the  lady  we  have  presented)  was  beautiful  enough 
and  accomplished  enough  to  command  no  little  share  of  admi 
ration,  even  if  her  position  had  been  less  distinguished. 

"  You  leave  us  early,  Mrs.  Russel,"  remarked  a  gentleman 
who  had  just  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd  in  time  to 
hear  the  lady  give  directions  concerning  her  carriage.  "  It 
would  be  worth  the  while  of  some  of  our  court  geniuses  to 
spend  their  wit  in  inventing  some  fascination  that  should  keep 
you  with  us  beyond  the  magic  one  hour." 

"  Nay,  do  not  attempt  it,  my  lord.  I  am  already  quite  be 
wildered  by  such  an  array  of  splendor,  and  it  is  only  to  save 
my  poor  republican  brain  a  total  overthrow  that  I  fly  the  field 
while  I  may." 

"  Ah !  if  that  be  all,  come  with  me,  lady.  Yonder  is  a 
delightful  alcove,  where  a  few  choice  spirits  — " 

"  Ah !  my  lord !  the  danger  is  not  always  in  the  broadest 
blaze.  I  am  but  a  novice  in  all  these  enchantments  and  my 
only  safety  is  in  flight." 

"  That  means,  lady  bright,  that  you  have  conned  the  law 


64  GRACE    LINDEN. 

of  mercy.     But  when  your  fair  republic  deigns  to  drop  a 
choice  star  among  us,  we  like  not  that  it  should  be  veiled." 

The  lady  bent  in  graceful  acknowledgment,  and  the  con 
versation  proceeded  more  gaily,  until  Mrs.  Kussel's  carriage 
was  announced  to  be  in  readiness  ;  then  his  lordship,  carefully 
wrapping  her  cloak  about  her,  handed  her  to  a  seat  within, 
bowed  his  head  almost  to  her  gloved  hand,  drew  up  the  glass, 
and  the  carriage  whirled  away.  In  a  few  moments  the  lady 
of  the  ambassador  was  at  her  hotel.  She  tripped  lightly  up 
the  broad  stair-case,  and  flinging  cloak  and  hood  into  the 
hands  of  her  half-sleeping  maid,  with  a  bright  smile  which 
many  a  weary  belle  whom  she  had  left  behind  might  have 
envied,  passed  onward  to  an  inner  apartment.  A  night  lamp 
stood  burning  on  a  marble  table ;  and,  as  she  came  near,  her 
foot  touched  some  light  substance  on  the  floor.  It  was  a 
child's  slipper,  tiny  enough  for  the  foot  of  Titania  herself ; 
and,  as  the  mother  clasped  it  in  her  jewelled  hand,  there  was 
a  dewiness  in  her  soft  eye,  that  told  how  touchingly  dear  to 
her  was  everything  hallowed  by  connection  with  her  heart's 
treasures.  She  paused  and  bent  over  the  couch  of  a  fair 
sleeping  girl,  parted  the  bright  curls  from  her  forehead,  and 
gazed  fondly  on  the  exquisite  chiselling,  then  pressing  her  lips 
upon  that,  on  the  closed  eyes  and  rose-bud  mouth,  turned  lin- 
geringiy,  and  proceeded  to  the  little  crib  beyond.  It  was  the 
nestling  place  of  Cupid  himself.  The  round,  rosy  face  looked 
out  from  its  golden  ambush  of  curls,  with  almost  its  waking 
roguishness  of  expression  ;  and  the  fat,  white  arms  were 
clasped  determinedly  over  a  little  whip,  the  most  petted,  be 
cause  the  newest  of  his  playthings.  Those  dimpled  arms 
received  many  a  fond  kiss  before  they  were  enveloped  in  the 
folds  of  the  night-dress  ;  and  the  little  whip  was  removed  as 
carefully  as  though  it  had  been  the  choicest  of  treasures. 
Then  the  mother  bent  again  over  the  fair  boy,  and  while  her 
eyes  rested  lovingly  upon  him,  her  heart  went  up  to  heaven 
with  all  those  holy  aspirations  which  often  shed  their  halo  on 
the  path  of  men  when  the  spirit  that  breathed  them  has  gone 
to  its  rest.  As  the  lady  emerged  from  the  nursery  she  was 


GRACE    LINDEN.  65 

met  by  her  husband,  and  they  returned  to  her  dressing  room 
together. 

"  You  made  a  masterly  retreat  to-night,  Grace,"  he  said ; 
"  now  if  I  only  had  half  your  assurance,  I  should  be  as  grate 
ful  as  grateful  can  be.  Oh,  how  I  pity  those  poor  ladies  that 
must  stay  and  mope  to  the  end  of  the  chapter ! " 

"  And  how  they  pity  people  so  little  au  fait  to  the  ways  of 
the  world  as  we  are  !  Why,  only  last  night,  I  overheard  a 
lady  duchess  remark  of  your  charming  wife,  '  poor  thing !  how 
?iew ! '  and  all  because  she  turned  in  disgust  from  a  very  dis 
gusting  scene  at  a  card-table." 

"  And  were  you  not  very  much  shocked,  Grace  ? " 

"  Of  course,  it  was  a  very  shocking  thing,  but  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  turning  to  assure  her  grace  that  it  was 
a  defect  which  years  would  remedy.  She  is  as  much 
ashamed  of  being  old  as  though  it  were  a  crime." 

"  And  you  of  course  knew  the  sensitive  point  by  intuition, 
and  touched  it  in  a  most  lady-like  manner.  You  are  a  true 
woman,  Grace.  Who  would  once  have  thought  of  '  my 
Gracey's '  ever  tilting  with  these  gossiping  court  ladies  ?  Fie  ! 
fie  !  It  is  ill-natured  of  you." 

"  It  ought  to  please  you,  Harry ;  it  proves  that  I  am  not 
new.  But  truth  to  tell,  I  am  sick  myself  of  this  constant 
sharpening  of  wits  never  over  bright.  I  am  afraid  they  will 
be  worn  out  before  I  have  my  own  fireside  again  to  use  them 
by.  If  you  had  not  promised  that  your  public  career  should 
end  with  this  embassy,  I  verily  believe,  Harry,  that  I  should 
run  away  from  you,  and  nestle  down  in  a  certain  quiet  nook 
away  in  the  green  woods  of  New  York." 

"  You  are  not  so  very  miserable  here,  Grace?" 

"  Miserable  !  oh,  no  !  I  can  afford  to  go  and  play  my  part 
in  such  a  great  farce  every  day,  since  I  may  come  home  to 
you  and  the  children ;  and  it  suits  me  very  well  indeed,  since 
I  know  it  is  not  to  last." 

"  And  what  think  you,  dear  Grace,  of  those  ladies,  who 
have  neither  husband  nor  children  to  go  home  to  ?  that  is, 
6* 


66  GRACE    LINDEN. 

those  who  have  both,  but  scarce  see  them  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end." 

"  Oh  !  they  are  the  initiated  —  born  fine  ladies.  You  know 
I  am  a  butterfly  so  late  from  the  chrysalis  that  I  have  some 
very  contracted  notions  clinging  to  me  —  notwithstanding  my 
fine  wings,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the  magnificent  plume 
that  had  formed  her  principal  head  ornament  for  the  evening. 

It  will  be  seen  that  our  old  friend  Grace  was  yet  unchang 
ed.  Prosperity  had  not  turned  her  head,  nor  a  mawkish 
sentimentality  stepped  in  to  supply  the  place  of  heart.  She 
had  no  interminable  flood  of  murmurs  to  drawl  forth  against 
the  follies  that  surrounded  her,  no  repinings,  no  peevish  fret- 
fulness  ;  but  on  her  pillow  she  did  picture  a  charming  little 
retreat,  close  beside  a  little  village,  in  which  Lizzy  and  Liz 
zy's  children  figured  largely ;  and  a  darling  old  lady,  smil 
ingly  receiving  the  homage  of  loving  hearts,  occupied  the 
foreground.  Her  own  transformation,  instead  of  serving  as 
food  for  vanity,  amused  her  with  its  strangeness ;  and  philos 
ophy  itself — Diogenes  in  his  tub,  and  Epicurus  in  his  sen 
sual  elysium  —  might  equally  have  envied  the  cheerful 
equanimity  with  which  a  fair  American  dame  could  mingle 
in  the  gayeties  of  one  of  the  gayest  European  courts,  keeping 
meanwhile  close  in  her  heart  the  little  domestic  paradise  that 
she  had  loved  beyond  the  seas.  Grace  Linden  (we  like  not 
to  change  the  name)  twined  jewels  in  her  hair,  fastened  the 
broach  and  clasped  the  bracelet,  and  thought  no  more  of 
them ;  but  there  was  a  plain  gold  ring  that  she  always  looked 
upon  with  earnest,  sometimes  with  tear-dimmed  eyes.  When 
no  one  was  near  —  not  even  husband  or  child  —  the  homely 
ornament  was  often  pressed  long  and  fervently  to  her  lips  ; 
she  would  not  have  bartered  that  simple  ring  for  the  whole 
court's  wealth  of  diamonds ;  it  had  once  encircled  the  pale 
finger  of  her  sister  Abby.  Rich,  costly  vases,  filled  with  the 
choicest  flowers,  made  the  air  of  her  apartments  heavy  with 
perfume,  and  rare  plants  wooed  the  sunlight  in  her  recessed 
windows ;  but  in  the  midst  of  all  she  forgot  not  to  write  to 
her  brother  Frank :  "Do  not  take,  as  you  threatened,  that 


GRACE    LINDEN.  67 

pretty  eglantine  from  the  window  that  was  mine  the  last 
summer  I  spent  at  home.  It  was  just  scrambling  up  the 
third  pane  then,  and  you  must  not  let  it  grow  higher,  or  I 
should  never  know  it.  And  plant  the  sweet  peas  across  the 
little  patch  down  by  the  currant  bushes.  I  have  watched  the 
bees  by  the  hour,  glancing  about  them  like  lost  specks  of 
sunshine,  and  then  plunging  among  the  bright  leaves  with  a 
hearty  boldness  that  made  the  robbers  quite  fascinating.  Do 
not  change  anything,  Frank ;  you  cannot  make  better  the 
dear,  dear  spot,  and  I  must  find  every  violet  and  marigold  in 
its  place  when  I  come  home." 

Two  years  had  passed.  A  light,  simple,  airy  mansion  had 
risen  behind  an  avenue  of  native  forest  trees,  close  by  the 
unpretending  home  of  the  Lindens ;  and  the  young  lawyer 
who  had  commenced  his  professional  career  in  our  small  vil 
lage  some  twenty  years  before,  was  now  its  most  honored 
citizen.  It  was  a  mild  autumn  evening,  and  the  three  fami 
lies,  as  was  their  wont,  had  gathered  in  the  little  parlor,  more 
dear  to  all  than  any  other,  because  more  particularly  asso 
ciated  with  the  hopes,  and  fears,  and  loves  of  other  days. 
Half  buried  in  a  large  cushioned  chair,  in  the  corner,  sat 
Mrs.  Linden,  a  very  little  bent  and  a  good  deal  wrinkled, 
with  her  snowy  locks  parted  smoothly  on  a  brow  as  serene 
as  a  summer  evening,  and  her  sweet  mild  eyes  wandering 
from  face  to  face,  in  maternal  fondness.  Close  by  was  her 
husband,  dandling  another  little  pet,  that  had  taken  the  place 
of  Charley,  on  his  knee,  and  amusing  the  company,  from 
time  to  time,  with  the  self-same  anecdotes  (so  the  old  lady 
asserted)  that  he  had  told  at  her  father's  table  during  the 
days  of  his  wooing.  Two  lovely  women,  evidently  sisters, 
occupied  each  an  ottoman  close  beside  a  work-table,  and  as 
one  pared  with  her  scissors  a  little  from  the  neck  of  a  muslin 
collar,  she  would  lay  it  on  the  other's  shoulders  and  smooth 
it  with  her  hand,  and  then  remove  it  to  her  knee  again,  drop 
ping,  from  time  to  time,  those  artless  remarks  which  make 
such  a  poor  figure  in  the  telling,  but  weave  many  a  golden 
link  in  the  chain  of  love.  Near  to  these,  a  placid  matron,  a 


68  GRACE    LINDEN. 

year  or  two  older,  was  leaning  over  the  shoulder  of  a  fine  boy 
engaged  with  his  pencil,  and  talking  in  a  soft  whisper  of 
spoiled  eyes  and  aching  heads — things  so  preposterous  as  to 
set  the  large,  mirthful  orbs,  at  which  they  particularly  pointed, 
in  a  dance  of  glee.  The  village  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of 
nine,  when  the  family  party  received  an  accession.  Neddy 
Sommers,  the  pet,  sprang  from  grandfather's  knee  to  father's 
arms,  begging  to  be  allowed  to  sit  up  just  a  little  while  longer; 
a  larger,  firmer  hand  began  guiding  the  pencil  of  the  embryo 
artist ;  and  the  manliest  figure  of  the  three  bent  over  the  arm 
of  grandmother's  rocking-chair,  and  listened  to  her  with  the 
most  respectful  tenderness. 

"  What  is  that  you  were  just  saying  of  my  lady — Crinkum- 
Crankum — jaw-breaker,  Grace?"  inquired  Frank,  replacing 
the  pencil  in  the  boy's  hand.  "  You  had  better  look  to  your 
wife,  Ned  Sommers,  or  all  this  foreign  trash  will  quite  run 
away  with  her  reason." 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  returned  Sommers,  quietly,  and  tossing  the 
baby  within  an  inch  of  the  ceiling.  "  I  expect  no  less ;  I  am 
prepared  for  any  extravagance,  even  to  a  livery." 

"  I  should  be  obliged  to  put  it  upon  you  and  the  children, 
then,"  answered  Lizzy ;  "  for  I  think  you  gave  your  last 
'  help  '  a  holyday  week,  this  morning." 

"  You  had  better  be  upon  your  good  behavior,  all,"  said 
Grace,  "  or  we  will  get  up  an  establishment  in  right  princely 
style,  and  press  you  into  the  service.  There  is  Frank,  calls 
himself  a  capital  whip,  and  Mr.  Sommers  would  let  down  the 
steps  with  superlative  grace,  I  dare  say." 

"  Frank,"  inquired  Russel,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and 
a  mischievous  curl  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  "  did  I  ever 
tell  you  the  story  of  your  gracious  sister  and  the  footman 
of " 

"  Harry ! " 

"  You  see  she  don't  like  me  to  expose  her  follies." 

"  Oh,  tell !  Let  us  hear !  Give  us  the  story,  by  all 
means  !  "  exclaimed  three  or  four  voices. 

"  Did  she  mistake  him  for  his  master  ?  "   inquired  Frank. 

"  Not  exactly,  but  —  " 


GRACE    LINDEN.  69 

"  Now,  Harry  !  "  and  Grace  rung  the  bell  violently. 

Small  things  are  matters  of  mirth  where  hearts  are  merry, 
and  the  laugh  against  poor  Grace  had  not  had  time  to  sub 
side,  when  a  sad  little  face  was  thrust  in  at  the  door. 

"  Nannie,  bring  '  Mittah  Ushil '  a  pie  —  a  whole  one,  mind, 
for  he  is  near  starving.  Excuse  me,  Mary ;  I  should  not 
presume  to  play  mistress  of  the  house,  but  in  an  extreme  case 
like  this.  Try  that  apple,  Harry.  It  may  serve  your  turn 
till  the  pie  comes." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  discomposed,  Grace,"  remarked 
Russel,  with  provoking  coolness ;  "  but  since  you  so  earnestly 
desire  it — since,"  and  here  he  glanced  archly  at  his  brothers, 
"  since  it  is  perfectly  natural  that  you  should  desire  it,  we 
will  put  the  story  over  till  another  evening." 

"  What  is  it,  Grace  ?  "  whispered  Lizzy. 

"  Oh,  a  foolish  thing.  He  makes  half  of  it,  and  it  was 
ridiculous  enough  to  begin  with.  A  silly  fellow  managed  to 
get  a  fine  joke  upon  me.  It  was  nothing  at  all  —  but  if  Frank 
should  hear  of  it,  I  should  have  no  peace." 

"  Nannie  looks  sad,  poor  child  !  "  remarked  Mary.  "  She 
has  been  telling  me  to-day  that  her  father  is  in  trouble  again." 

"  That  fellow  is  incorrigible  !  "  said  Russel. 

"  What  has  happened  to  him  ?  "  inquired  Grace. 

"  He  is  confined  in  the  county  jail,  as  a  vagrant,"  was 
Mary's  reply. 

"  I  do  believe  he  might  be  made  to  reform,  if  proper  means 
were  taken.  Nannie  came  to  me  to-day,  with  streaming 
eyes,  and  said,  if  the  gentlemen  would  but  procure  his  release 
this  once  more,  she  would  coax  him  to  be  good  and  industri 
ous.  She  was  sure  he  would  n't  drink  any  more,  when  he 
saw  how  badly  she  felt  —  and  it  was  all  the  drink,  she  knew 
it  was.  Her  father  was  too  kind  to  do  wrong  when  he  was 
in  his  right  mind.  I  wish  something  could  be  done." 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  said  Grace,  earnestly.  "  We 
know  the  good  that  is  in  Dick  Grouse  better  than  police- 
officers,  and  a  seat  at  the  table  beside  Nannie,  in  your  kitch 
en,  Mary,  would  do  more  to  reform  him  than  all  the  jails  in 


70  GRACE    LINDEN. 

the  county.  You  will  see  him,  Harry,  in  the  morning,  will 
you  not  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  be  as  sanguine  as  you  and  Mary.  However, 
the  poor  wretch  must  not  be  given  up.  We  shall  be  obliged 
to  allow  him  another  trial  —  a  half-dozen  more,  very  likely." 

"  If  you  could  get  upon  some  plan,  Harry,  to  employ  him, 
and  have  him  under  your  immediate  care  —  " 

"  It  would  be  a  somewhat  troublesome  care,  Grace." 

"  I  mean,  keep  him  where  he  will  believe  you  have  a  con 
stant  interest  in  him.  Then  I  might  take  pains  to  drop  a 
word  to  him,  now  and  then,  which  would  have  some  influence. 
I  can't  believe  that  he  is  past  hope  yet." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Sommers,  "  no  man  is  past  hope,  as  long 
as  proper  means  are  taken  to  reform  him." 

"  Then  if  the  means  be  all,  consider  Dick  Grouse  a  useful 
citizen  hereafter ;  for  with  such  a  superabundance  of  means 
as  we  have  here,  neglecting  him  would  be  a  greater  sin  than 
any  he  ever  committed." 

"  If  means  were  all,  there  would  be  few  vicious  people 
within  the  sphere  of  your  influence,  Grace,"  exclaimed  her 
husband,  with  affectionate  pride.  "  At  any  rate,  Sommers. 
we  will  give  your  theory  a  trial,  and  if  Grace  fail  —  " 

"  She  will  not  fail,"  returned  the  brother ;  "  such  as  she 
never  do." 

"  Good !  And  now,  Ned,  as  a  kind  of  a  reward  for  that 
handsome  compliment,  you  shall  have  the  story  of  the  foot 
man.  Don't  *  oh,  Harry '  me,  Grace ;  I  will  leave  the  em 
bellishments  for  another  day.  You  must  know  that  a  certain 
nobleman  whom  we  met  abroad,  had  a  servant  so  much  given 
to  his  cups,  that  he  could  not  be  trusted.  He  was  a  good, 
honest  fellow,  and  a  favorite  withal,  and  so  every  means  had 
been  used  to  reform  him  that  could  be  devised,  but  without  suc 
cess.  The  worst  of  it  was,  he  had  an  aged  grandmother  and 
blind  sister  entirely  dependent  on  him ;  and  when  in  his  sober 
senses,  he  would  plead  their  cause  so  eloquently  that  it  was 
impossible  not  to  be  moved  by  his  entreaties.  At  last,  how 
ever,  his  master  became  exasperated,  and  refused  to  keep  him 


GRACE    LINDEN.  71 

another  day.  Grace  happened  to  be  a  witness  to  this  scene, 
and  became  a  sort  of  sponsor  for  the  fellow." 

"  That  is  all,  Harry ;  only  he  never  became  intoxicated 
again." 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  have  seen  him,  drunk  as  he  was,  blub 
bering  away  on  her  —  not  hand  but  foot  !  We  all  laughed  —  " 

"  Ah,  Harry !  All  those  pocket-handkerchiefs  were  not 
hurried  out  so  suddenly  to  cover  nothing  but  a  laugh.  The 
truth  is,  there  were  tears  in  more  eyes  than  mine ;  and  well 
there  might  be,  for  the  poor  fellow's  gratitude  would  have 
stirred  up  the  very  stones  to  feeling." 

"  I  never  saw  a  scene  more  ludicrously  pathetic,  and  what 
with  weeping  and  what  with  laughing,  the  drunken  footman 
had  the  honor  of  producing  quite  a  sensation.  But  it  seems 
that  Grace  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  this  demonstra 
tion,  and  so  —  " 

"  You  are  too  bad,  Harry  !  " 

"  And  so  she  took  her  opportunity  to  draw  a  promise  from 
him,  and  the  pledge  was  sealed  by  a  ring,  which  he  was  to 
wear  until  he  had  broken  his  word.  Afterwards,  whenever 
she  met  him,  at  the  house  of  his  master  or  in  the  public 
street,  he  would  bow  low,  as  though  again  in  search  of  the 
lady's  foot,  and  hold  up  the  finger  with  the  ring  upon  it.  At 
first,  we  paid  no  attention  to  it ;  but  after  a  while,  Grace 
began  to  blush  —  " 

"  You  looked  so  comically  —  " 

"  And  you  so  confused  !  Oh,  Grace,  you  ought  to  thank 
me  for  giving  the  story  such  a  favorable  version." 

"  I  do,  Harry ;  for  it  is  the  first  time  that  you  have  told  it 
correctly,  and  I  was  not  quite  sure  before  that  —  that  —  " 

"  That  I  was  not  jealous  of  the  poor  footman,  eh  ?  " 

"  That  you  thought  I  did  right." 

"  You  never  do  wrong,  Grace  ! " 

"  And  never  did  since  she  was  a  little  baby  in  my  arms," 
broke  in  the  tremulous  voice  of  grandmother.  "  Abby  told 
me,  on  her  dying  bed,  that  Grace  would  be  a  blessing  to  the 
family,  and  she  told  me  true." 


72 


GRACE  LINDEN. 


"  True  !  true  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Linden,  in  the  deep  tones 
of  emotion. 

Lizzy's  arm  was  twined  around  her  sister,  their  two  hearts 
beating  together  ;  a  large  round  tear-drop  stole  silently  down 
the  manly  cheek  of  the  brother  ;  and  the  proud  husband  bent 
his  eloquent  eyes  on  her  who  was  for  the  moment  the  focus 
of  all  eyes,  in  deeper,  holier  admiration  than  ever  stirred  the 
pulses  of  an  unwedded  lover. 


73 


CLINGING    TO    EARTH. 

0  DO  not  let  me  die !  the  earth  is  bright, 
And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ; 

Though  heaven  is  holier,  all  replete  with  light, 
Yet  I  am  frail,  and  with  frail  things  would  dwell. 

1  cannot  die  !  the  flowers  of  earthly  love 

Shed  their  rich  fragrance  on  a  kindred  heart ; 
There  may  be  purer,  brighter  flowers  above, 
But  yet  with  these  't  would  be  too  hard  to  part. 

I  dream  of  heaven,  and  well  I  love  these  dreams, 
They  scatter  sunlight  on  my  varying  way  ; 

But  'mid  the  clouds  of  earth  are  priceless  gleams  $ 
Of  brightness,  and  on  earth  0  let  me  stay. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  void  of  gloom, 

That  sadness  never  circles  round  my  heart ; 

Nor  that  I  fear  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
That  I  would  never  from  the  earth  depart. 

'T is  that  I  love  the  world  —  its  cares,  its  sorrows, 
Its  bounding  hopes,  its  feelings  fresh  and  warm, 

Each  cloud  it  wears,  and  every  light  it  borrows, 
Loves,  wishes,  fears,  the  sunshine  and  the  storm ; 

I  love  them  all :  but  closer  still  the  loving 

Twine  with  my  being's  cords  and  make  my  life ; 

And  while  within  this  sunlight  I  am  moving, 
I  well  can  bide  the  storms  of  worldly  strife. 

Then  do  not  let  me  die  !  for  earth  is  bright, 
And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well  — 

Heaven  is  a  land  of  holiness  and  light, 

But  I  am  frail,  and  with  the  frail  would  dwell. 
7 


74 


ASPIRING    TO    HEAVEN. 

YES,  let  me  die  !     Am  I  of  spirit-birth, 

And  shall  I  linger  here  where  spirits  fell, 
L/Loving  the  stain  they  cast  on  all  of  earth  ? 

0  make  me  pure,  with  pure  ones  e'er  to  dwell ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  die  !     The  flowers  of  earthly  love, 
(Fair,  frail,  spring  blossoms)  early  droop  and  die , 

But  all  their  fragrance  is  exhaled  above, 
Upon  our  spirits  evermore  to  lie. 

Life  is  a  dream,  a  bright  but  fleeting  dream, 

1  can  but  love ;  but  then  my  soul  awakes, 
And  from  the  mist  of  earthliness  a  gleam 

Of  heavenly  light,  of  truth  immortal,  breaks. 

I  shrink  not  from  the  shadows  sorrow  flings 
Across  my  pathway ;  nor  from  cares  that  rise 

In  every  foot-print ;  for  each  shadow  brings 
Sunshine  and  rainbow  as  it  glooms  and  flies. 

But  heaven  is  dearer.     There  I  have  my  treasure ; 

There  angels  fold  in  love  their  snowy  wings ; 
There  sainted  lips  chant  in  celestial  measure, 

And  spirit  fingers  stray  o'er  heav'n-wrought  strings. 

There  loving  eyes  are  to  the  portals  straying ; 

Thsre  arms  extend,  a  wanderer  to  fold ; 
There  waits  a  dearer,  holier  One,  arraying 

His  own  in  spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  gold. 

Then  let  me  die.     My  spirit  longs  for  heaven, 

In  that  pure  bosom  evermore  to  rest ; 
But,  if  to  labor  longer  here  be  given, 

"Father,  thy  will  be  done  ! "  and  I  am  blest. 


75 


UNDERBILL    COTTAGE. 

NAY,  reader  mine,  it  is  all  a  mistake,  all  —  Fanny  Forester 
could  not  breathe  (for  a  long  time)  in  New  York  or  Albany, 
or  any  other  pavement-cribbed  spot  of  earth,  that,  men  seem 
to  have  leased  of  the  Hand  that  made  it,  to  torture  into  unnat 
ural  shapes  for  their  own  undoing.  No,  no !  Give  her 

" the  fresh  green  wood, 

The  forest's  fretted  aisles, 
And  leafy  domes  above  them  bent, 

And  solitude, 

So  eloquent ! 
Mocking  the  varied  skill  that 's  blent 

In  art's  most  gorgeous  piles — " 

Give  her  this,  and  "  other  things  to  accord,"  and  then  —  a  fig 
for  all  town  attractions  ! 

Wouldst  see,  0  sympathetic  public,  the  little  nestling-place, 
almost  in  the  wilderness,  to  which  '  Bel '  Forester's  country 
cousin  is  most  warmly  welcomed  after  a  half-year's  absence  ? 
Then  turn  thy  myriad-footed  locomotives  thitherward,  (forest- 
ward,  I  mean,)  as  soon  as  the  swelling  buds  begin  to  burst,  in 
the  spring-time,  and  the  odor  of  fresh  turf  and  apple-blossoms 
is  out  upon  the  air.  Nay,  straighten  that  curl  in  the  lip,  and 
drop  the  uplifted  eye-brow.  What  if  it  be  a  simple  spot? 
Simplicity  is  a  rare  thing,  now-a-days  ;  and  the  people  of  the 
great  world  have  a  wondrous  liking  for  what  is  rare.  More 
over,  I  doubt  if  they  had  purer  dews,  or  softer  airs,  or  brighter 
waters,  where  the  Euphrates  tinkled  the  first  note  of  time, 
and  the  breath  was  borne  to  the  lips  of  our  mother  upon  an 
angel's  wing.  I  am  not  sure  that  there  are  any  angels  here ; 
but  the  flowers  sometimes  have  a  look  to  them  that  makes  me 
afraid  to  break  their  stems ;  and  there  are  moments  when  it 


76  UNDERBILL    COTTAGE. 

would  require  infinite  daring  to  toss  a  pebble  into  the  brook ; 
for  who  can  tell  but  it  might  hush  one  of  those  voices  that 
sing  to  me  in  the  holy  solitude  ?  The  trees,  too.  have  a 
strange  lovingness,  leaning  over  the  brook  protectingly,  and 
shadowing  the  little  violets,  as  many  a  high  spirit  stoops  to 
watch  over  a  poor  human  blossom.  Oh !  there  are  beating 
pulses  in  the  trees,  and  I  love  them,  because  I  know  there  is 
a  Great  Heart  somewhere,  that  keeps  them  all  in  motion. 

Perhaps But  you  shall  not  be  told  all  the  things  that 

have  been  whispered  in  my  ear  by  those  fresh-lipped  leaves, 
when  not  a  mortal  foot  was  nearer  than  the  far-off  road ; 
though  feet  enow  were  tripping  it  over  the  grass  blades,  and 
a  listener  sat  perched  on  every  spray.  Page  on  page  of  spirit- 
lore  have  I  gathered  there ;  but  I  have  closed  the  book  now, 
and  "  clasped  it  with  a  clasp."  That  is  my  wealth,  and  I  am 
a  miser. 

Come  to  Alderbrook,  I  say,  in  the  spring  time,  for  the 
crackle  of  the  wood  fire,  by  which  I  am  writing,  might  be  a 
music  which  would  scarce  please  you  ;  and,  sooth  to  say,  our 
winter  cheer  offers  little  that  is  inviting  to  a  pleasure-seeker. 
It  is  well  to  take  to  the  turf  when  you  reach  the  toll-gate  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill ;  for  the  road  has  a  beautiful  green  margin 
to  it,  grateful  to  feet  sick  of  the  dust  of  a  day's  ride.  It  is 
not  a  difficult  walk  to  the  top,  as  I  well  know  ;  having  climbed 
it  a  score  of  times  every  year,  since  first  I  chased  a  playful 
little  racer  of  a  squirrel  along  the  crooked  fence,  fully  per 
suaded  that  there  was  some  sudden  way  of  taming  it,  not 
withstanding  its  evident  scorn  of  the  peeled  nut,  which  I  held 
coaxingly  between  my  thumb  and  fore-finger.  High  hills, 
skirted  by  forests,  are  rising  on  the  right ;  and  on  the  left,  is 
a  slope,  terminating  in  a  deep  gorge,  through  which  the  little 
brook  tinkles,  as  though  myriads  of  fairy  revellers  tripped  it 
there,  to  the  music  of  their  own  silver  bells.  Perched  on  the 
top  of  the  hill,  is  a  tall,  weather-painted  house,  of  a  contracted 
make ;  though,  like  some  people,  whose  mental  dimensions 
have  been  narrowed,  with  a  very  smart,  uppish  air  about  it ; 
and  fronting  it,  away  down  in  a  deep,  wild  ravine,  is  an  old, 


UNDERBILL    COTTAGE.  77 

moss-grown  saw-mill.  It  has  been  forsaken  this  many  a  long 
year ;  the  wheel  is  broken,  and  the  boards  are  rotting  away  ; 
but  yet  it  is  verily  believed  by  many,  that  the  old  saw  still 
uses  its  rusty  teeth  o'  nights,  and  that  strange,  unholy  guests, 
keep  wassail  there,  at  the  expense  of  a  poor  mortal  long  since 
mouldering  in  his  shroud.  Alas  !  for  thee,  old  Jake  Gawes- 
ley  !  It  was  a  fearful  thing  to  raise  such  a  pile  of  worldly 
possessions  between  thyself  and  humanity !  How  gladly 
wouldst  thou,  in  that  last  hour,  have  bought,  with  the  whole 
of  them,  a  single  love-softened  hand  to  soothe,  with  such  a 
touch  as  love  only  knows,  thy  throbbing  temple  !  Oh !  it  is 
a  horrible  thing  to  turn  from  the  world,  and  bear  not  away 
the  pure  passport  of  a  mourner's  tear !  Thy  grave  has  never 
been  watered  by  the  dews  distilled  from  a  human  heart,  like 
the  flower-planted  ones  around  it ;  the  small  grey  stone  at  its 
head  is  broken,  and  no  one  cares  to  replace  it ;  and  the  thistle 
nods  to  the  wind  above  thee.  It  is  said  that  this  saw-mill 
was  erected  on  an  orphan's  rights ;  and  men  are  as  fond  of 
the  doctrine  of  retribution,  as  though  they  never  sinned. 
Hence  the  superstition. 

You  will  see,  from  this  point,  the  little  village  of  Alder- 
brook,  so  near,  thftt  you  may  count  every  house  in  it.  There 
are  two  pretty  churches ;  one  on  the  top  of  the  rise  called 
"  The  Hill,"  the  other  nestled  down  in  a  very  sweet  spot  on 
"  The  Flat."  Then  we  have,  besides,  the  seminary  made 
memorable  by  poor  Jem  Fletcher ;  a  district  school-house, 
painted  red  ;  and  a  milliner's  shop,  painted  yellow ;  three 
stores,  two  taverns,  (one  with  a  sign-post,  once  tantalizing  to 
my  young  eyes,  so  candy-like  did  it  look  in  its  coat  of  white, 
with  a  wisp  of  crimson  about  it,)  a  printing  office,  in  which 
the  "  Alderbrook  Sun  "  rises  of  a  Wednesday  morning ;  a 
temple  of  Vulcan,  and  two  or  three  other  establishments, 
sacred  to  the  labors  of  our  native  artisans. 

As  you  pass  along,  you  will  find  the  road  lined  with  berry- 
bushes  and  shad-trees,  now  (it  is  spring,  you  know)  white 
with  their  bride-like  clusters  of  delicate  blossoms ;  and  many 
a  thick-shaded  maple  and  graceful  elm  will  wish  that  you 
7* 


78  UNDERBILL    COTTAGE. 

had  waited  till  midsummer,  when  4hey  might  have  been  of 
service  to  you.  Very  hospitable  trees  are  those  about  Alder- 
brook. 

You  are  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  village ;  and 
now  the  fence  on  the  left  diverges  from  the  roadside,  making 
a  pretty  backward  curve,  as  though  inviting  you  to  follow  it 
down  the  hill.  A  few  steps  farther,  and  you  look  down  upon 
the  coziest  of  little  cottages,  snuggled  close  in  the  bosom  of 
the  green  slope,  with  its  white  walls  and  nice  white  lattice 
work,  looking,  amid  those  budding  vines,  all  folding  their 
arms  about  it,  like  a  living  sleeper  under  the  especial  protec 
tion  of  Dame  Nature.  Do  you  feel  no  desire  to  step  from  the 
road  where  you  stand,  to  the  tip  of  the  chimney,  which  seems 
so  temptingly  near,  and  thence  to  plant  your  foot  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill  over  the  brook  ?  It  may  be  that  you  are  a  sober- 
minded  individual,  and  never  had  any  break-neck  propensities; 
may  be  you  never  longed  to  lose  your  balance  on  the  wrong 
side  of  a  three-story  window,  or  take  a  ride  on  a  water-wheel, 
or  a  sail  on  a  sheet  of  foam  down  Niagara,  or  even  as  much 
as  put  your  fingers  between  the  two  teethed  rollers  of  a  wool- 
carder.  There  are  people  in  the  world  so  common-place  as 
to  have  no  taste  for  "  deeds  of  lofty  daring." 

There  are  eglantines  and  roses  grouped  together  by  the 
windows ;  and  a  clematis  wreathes  itself,  fold  on  fold,  and 
festoon  above  festoon,  in  wasteful  luxuriance,  about  the  trellis 
that  fences  in  the  little  old-fashioned  portico.  You  wonder 
how  any  horse-vehicle  ever  gets  down  there,  and  may  think 
the  descent  rather  dangerous ;  but  it  is  accomplished  with 
perfect  ease.  A  carriage  cannot  turn  about,  however,  and  is 
obliged  to  pass  up  on  the  other  side.  The  house  is  very  low 
in  front,  and  has  an  exceedingly  timid,  modest  bearing,  as  :s 
sometimes  the  case  even  with  houses ;  but  when  you  see  it 
from  the  field-side,  it  becomes  quite  a  different  affair.  The 
view  from  within  is  of  fields  and  woodland ;  with  now  and 
then  a  glittering  roof  or  speck  of  white  peering  through  the 
trees  between  us  and  the  neighboring  village.  The  back 
parlor  window  looks  out  upon  a  little  garden,  just  below  it ; 


UNDERBILL    COTTAGE.  79 

and  beyond  is  a  beautiful  meadow,  sloping  back  down  to  the 
brook.  From  this  window  you  have  a  view  full  of  wild 
sweetness ;  for  nature  has  been  prodigal  of  simple  gifts  here ; 
and  we  have  never  been  quite  sure  enough  that  art  would  do 
better  by  us,  to  venture  on  improvements.  So  the  spotted 
lily  rears  its  graceful  stem  down  in  the  valley,  and  the  gay 
phlox  spreads  out  its  crimson  blossoms  undisturbed.  There 
the  wild  plum  blushes  in  autumn  with  its  worthless  fruit ; 
the  gnarled  birch  looks  down  on  the  silver  patches  adorning 
its  shaggy  coat,  quite  unconscious  of  ugliness ;  and  the  alders, 
the  dear,  friendly  alders,  twist  their  speckled  limbs  into  any 
shape  they  choose,  till  they  reach  the  height  that  best  pleases 
them,  and  then  they  droop  —  little  brown  tassels  pendant  from 
each  tiny  stem — over  the  bright  laugher  below,  as  though 
ready,  every  dissembler  of  them,  to  take  an  oath  that  they 
grew  only  for  that  worship.  There  are  stumps  a-plenty, 
marking  where  the  forest  used  to  be ;  and  growing  from  the 
decayed  roots  of  each,  you  will  be  sure  to  find  a  raspberry, 
or  purple  currant,  or  gooseberry  bush,  or  at  least  a  wild  col 
umbine,  whose  scarlet  robe  and  golden  heart  make  it  quite 
as  welcome.  We  like  the  stumps  for  the  sake  of  their  pretty 
adornments,  and  so  they  have  let  them  stand.  (Would  you 
know  who  we  and  they  are  ?  come,  then,  at  evening ;  you 
shall  be  most  cordially  welcomed ;  for,  the  kindly  forbearance 
with  which  you  have  looked  upon  the  first  simple  efforts  of 
one  there  beloved,  has  made  you  quite  the  friend.) 

Beyond  the  brook,  rises  a  hill,  bordered  on  one  side  by  a 
wild  of  berry  bushes,  and  on  the  other,  by  broken  rocks,  with 
a  little  wizard  of  a  stream,  leaping,  like  an  embodied  spirit  of 
mischief,  from  fragment  to  fragment,  with  a  flash,  and  a  clear 
silvery  laugh,  to  which,  I  believe,  the  inhabitants  of  Under 
bill  Cottage  owe  the  gay  bubble  dancing  on  the  brim  of  every 
heart.  The  hill  (Strawberry  Hill  we  call  it,  and  if  you  had 
come  to  us  last  midsummer,  you  should  have  known  the 
wherefore)  is  capped  with  hemlocks,  with  sprinklings  of 
beech,  ash,  elm  and  maple,  that,  in  autumn-time,  make  an 
exceedingly  gay  head-dress  for  it ;  and,  peeping  out  from 


80  UNDERBILL    COTTAGE. 

their  midst,  stands  the  log-cabin  of  an  Indian  woman,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a  hundred  years  old  when  she  wove  my 
first  blossom-stained  rattle-box.  Last  year  she  went  about 
with  her  thick  blanket,  which  passed  over  her  shiny  hair, 
fastened  under  the  chin,  and  surmounted  by  an  old  woollen 
hat ;  and,  on  her  arm,  a  huge  basket,  inside  of  which  was  a 
smaller  one,  and  a  still  smaller  one  in  that,  until  they  dimin 
ished  to  the  size  of  a  fitting  shell  for  the  nest  of  a  humming 
bird.  But  now,  sadly  do  we  miss  the  little  curl  of  silver  that 
used  to  rise  so  gracefully  above  the  trees ;  for  the  log-dwelling 
is  deserted,  and  its  age-worn  owner  sleeps  in  the  grave-yard. 
Dear  old  Polly !  many  a  son  of  ambition,  with  his  laurels  on 
his  brow,  will  be  laid  in  his  coffin,  crowds  trooping  ostenta 
tiously  after,  with  fewer  tears  to  embalm  his  ashes  in,  than 
thy  humble  virtues  won  for  thee. 

A  little  way  from  the  bridge,  is  an  immense  elm  tree, 
draped  in  green  down  to  the  very  roots ;  and  just  where  the 
shadow  of  its  massive  top  falls  heaviest  at  noon-day,  is  a 
little  —  for  want  of  a  more  descriptive  name,  I  must  call  it  a 
bower.  Dear  was  the  boyish  hand  that  tied  those  branches 
together,  and  trained  the  wild  grape-vine  over  all,  because  a 
little  sister  sometimes  wished  for  a  dreaming-place  more 
exclusive  than  the  old  ledge  on  the  hill-side,  or  the  shadow 
of  the  black  cherry-tree  in  the  meadow  —  dear  was  that 
kindly  hand ;  and  none  the  less  dear  is  it  now  that  it  may 
never  again  rest  upon  the  head  it  has  toyed  with  hours  and 
hours  together,  long  before  the  mildew  of  disappointment 
had  spread  itself  upon  our  hearth-stone.  These  days  are 
passed  forever  and  forever ;  but  bless  God  for  the  rich  memo 
ries  clinging  to  every  shrub,  and  tree,  and  hillock !  What  is 
there  in  all  the  gay  visions  dancing  before  us,  one-half  so 
dearly  grateful  as  a  single  love-glance,  a  word,  a  smile,  a 
tear,  a  touch  of  the  hand,  a  kindly  act,  embalmed  in  the  heart 
when  it  is  young,  to  keep  in  flower  the  spot  where  it  lies, 
until  it  has  ceased  its  wearied  pulsations  ?  Hope  is  a  butter 
fly,  and  Imagination  loves  to  chase  it  from  flower  to  flower, 
and  from  glitter  to  glitter ;  but  Memory  is  an  angel,  that 


UNDERBILL    COTTAGE.  81 

comes  in  the  holy  night-time ;  and,  folding  its  wings  beside 
us,  forges  silently  those  golden  links,  which,  as  years  wear 
away,  connect  the  spirit,  however  world-worn,  with  its  first 
freshness.  But  I  am  dreaming,  when  I  should  not. 

Come  in  the  spring-time  to  Alderbrook,  dear  friend  of 
mine,  whatever  name  thou  bearest;  come  when  the  little 
birds  are  out,  careering,  stark  mad  with  joyousness,  on  their 
giddy  wings ;  when  the  air  is  softest,  and  the  skies  are 
brightest ;  come,  and  I  will  cut  the  nib  from  my  pen,  owning, 
with  a  right  good  will,  its  clumsy  inefficiency ;  and  then, 
amid  bursting  buds  and  out-gushing  music,  thou  shall  have 
far  less  reason  than  now,  to  complain  of  the  dulness  of  thy 
cicerone. 


82 


LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE. 

WE  have  our  excitements  at  Alderbrook,  as  well  as  in  your 
great  Babel  of  "  brotherly  love,"  (love  like  that  of  the  first 
brothers,  I  have  heard  it  insinuated,)  but  the  doctrine  of  cause 
and  effect  has  a  slight  twist-about  between  the  two  places, 
which  might  puzzle  a  philosopher.  In  your  great  city,  a 
great  cause  produces  a  small  effect ;  in  our  small  village,  a 
small  cause  produces  a  great  effect.  Does  a  barn  or  a  black 
smith's  shop  take  fire  at  Alderbrook,  the  whole  village  —  men, 
women  and  children  —  are  up  and  out ;  and  it  furnishes  mat 
ter  for  conversation  at  every  tea-party  during  a  year,  at  least. 
With  you,  a  whole  street  may  burn  down,  while  you  lie 
quietly  snoozing  in  your  beds,  or  mentally  denounce  "  that 
noisy  engine,"  between  naps;  and  in  less  than  a  week  the 
whole  affair  passes  from  the  minds  of  all  but  the  sufferers. 
You  may  see  a  dozen  hearses  move  by  in  one  day,  and  never 
be  sobered  by  it;  is  there  a  death  in  our  village,  the  shadow 
falls  on  every  hearthstone,  and  a  long,  solemn  train  of  weep 
ing  mourners  (the  mourning  town)  leave  their  various  avo 
cations  and  amusements,  and  go  to  lay  the  sleeper  in  the  dust. 
Oh !  let  me  die  in  the  country,  where  I  shall  not  fall,  like  the 
single  leaf  in  the  forest,  unheeded ;  where  those  who  love  me 
need  not  mask  their  hearts  to  meet  the  careless  multitude, 
and  strive  as  a  duty  to  forget.  Bury  me  in  the  country,- 
amid  the  prayers  of  the  good  and  the  tears  of  the  loving ;  not 
in  the  dark,  damp  vault,  away  from  the  sweet-scented  air  and 
the  cheerful  sunshine ;  but  in  the  open  field,  among  the  flow 
ers  I  loved  and  cherished  while  living.  Then  — 

"  If  around  my  place  of  sleep 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go ; 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb." 


LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE.  83 

But  to  return  to  our  contrasts.  A  ruffian  meets  a  stranger 
in  a  dark  alley,  and  stabs  him  to  the  heart,  for  the  sake  of 
pelf;  another  whips  his  wife  to  death,  or  perhaps  butchers  a 
whole  family.  The  lawyers  and  paragraphists  are  thereby 
furnished  with  employment  —  for  which  they  are  of  course 
thankful  —  and,  except  in  extreme  cases,  no  one  else  cares. 
It  is  quite  different  with  us.  A  drunken  Indian  murdered  a 
white  man,  at  Alderbrook,  some  twenty  years  ago,  and  paid 
the  penalty  of  his  crime,  near  the  foot  of  the  slope,  at  the 
west  end  of  the  village,  while  thousands  on  thousands  stood 
gaping  at  the  terrible  spectacle.  This  tale,  whispered  to  me 
in  the  dark,  furnished  one  of  the  gloomy  visions  which  used 
to  haunt  my  childhood ;  and  I  would  as  soon  have  taken  the 
trip  that  Orpheus  did,  as  go  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
"  the  spot  where  old  Antoine  was  hung."  The  same  story, 
in  all  its  horrible  and  disgusting  details,  is  to  this  day  re 
peated  and  re-repeated  by  many  a  gossip  of  our  village, 
while  jaws  drop,  and  eyes  stand  out  with  terror,  and  every 
stirring  leaf  or  quivering  shadow  causes  a  start  of  alarm ;  for 
it  is  said  that  the  troubled  ghost  of  old  Antoine  still  walks 
up  and  down  the  forests  of  Alderbrook.  With  you,  picked 
pockets  are  such  every-day  and  every-hour  things,  as  to 
excite  no  attention  at  all,  except  perhaps  a  laugh  now  and 
then,  when  the  feat  has  been  performed  with  unusual  adroit 
ness  ;  but  if  an  axe  disappear  from  a  door  at  Alderbrook,  or 
a  couple  of  yards  of  linen  are  taken  from  the  grass  in  the 
night-time,  the  whole  village  is  in  commotion,  and  wonders, 
and  guesses,  and  sagacious  nods  and  mysterious  innuendoes, 
constitute,  for  a  month  at  least,  the  staple  of  social  intercourse. 
You  will  not  think  strange,  then,  when  I  tell  you  of  the 
wonderful  excitement  that  has  fairly  swept  every  other  topic 
under  with  us,  for  more  than  six  months  past.  It  has  been 
suspected  for  a  long  time,  that  a  band  of  thieves  existed  some 
where  in  our  quiet  county ;  but  such  crimes  are  so  unusual 
here,  that  no  one  likes  to  be  the  first  to  give  them  a  name ; 
so,  though  every  washerwoman  put  her  wet  linen  under  lock 
and  key  at  dewfall,  and  stables  were  double-locked  and  shops 


84  LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE. 

double-guarded,  the  careful  ones  only  shook  their  heads  mys 
teriously,  as  though  something  lay  at  the  bottom  of  their 
knowledge,  which  they  might  tell,  but  that  they  were  too 

generous,  while  others  scouted  at  the  idea  of county's 

harboring  such  rogues.  At  last,  however,  some  who  had  lost 
to  an  uncomfortable  degree,  began  to  speak  more  plainly,  and 
incredulity  wavered.  Finally,  one  night  toward  the  latter 
end  of  last  May,  a  farm-house  in  the  neighborhood  was  fired, 
obviously  (that  is,  it  was  obvious  when  too  late)  for  the  fur- 
pose  of  drawing  away  the  villagers,  while  the  principal  shop 
in  Alderbrook  was  despoiled  of  its  most  valuable  goods. 
Such  a  daring  deed  !  said  everybody.  It  was  now  supposed 
that  the  villany  must  have  been  carried  on  for  years,  and 
many  persons  who  like  a  large  story,  declared  that  the  band 
must  consist  of  at  least  fifty  men.  There  had  not  been  such 
an  excitement  here  since  the  execution  of  poor  old  Antoine. 
One  man  was  arrested  on  suspicion,  and  flattered  and  threat 
ened  by  turns,  in  the  hope  of  bringing  him  to  confess.  At 
last,  he  promised  to  do  this,  and  betray  his  associates,  pro 
vided  he  could  be  assured  of  his  own  safety.  This  was  the 
latest  news  which  reached  us  one  evening  toward  midnight, 
and  so  we  concluded  to  pillow  our  curiosity  until  morning. 

"  They  have  diskivered  the  robbers,  at  last,"  said  old  Uncle 
Felix  Graw,  hurrying,  all  out  of  breath,  into  our  breakfast 
parlor,  and  throwing  his  ungainly  figure  into  one  chair,  while 
he  stretched  his  long  legs  to  another.  "  They  have  diskiv 
ered  the  robbers,  neighbor  Forester,  every  one  of  'em  !  " 

Down  went  forks  and  up  went  eye-brows  in  a  twinkling, 
and  old  Uncle  Felix  was  the  focus  of  all  regards,  much  to 
the  detriment  of  the  smoking  muffins  which  Nancy  had  just 
placed  on  the  table. 

"  What !  how !  who  are  they,  Uncle  Felix  ?  Nobody  be 
longing  to  Alderbrook,  I  hope." 

"  Not  exactly,  though  the  village  has  just  escaped  by  the 
skin  of  the  teeth ;  Jem  White  is  in  for  it." 

"  What !  that  scape-grace  of  a  son  of  honest  Jacky  ?  Poor 
old  fellow !  this  will  be  worse  for  him  than  digging  in  the 
mud,  with  the  '  rheumatis '  in  his  shoulder." 


LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE.  85 

"  The  old  man  never  has  had  very  comfortable  times  with 
Jem,"  said  Uncle  Felix.  "  He  is  the  laziest  fellow  this  side 
of  purgatory,  but  I  never  thought  he  would  be  caught  in  such 
a  sorry  piece  of  business  as  this.  They  say  it  will  go  hard 
with  the  rascals  —  burglary  and  arson  both." 

"  The  old  story  of  idleness  and  crime.  Poor  Jacky !  I  pity 
him ! " 

"  Everybody  pities  him ;  and  for  one.  if  I  could  catch  Jem 
White,  I  'd  give  him  a  thrashing  that  he  would  n't  forget 
when  he  was  gray,  and  let  him  go,  the  scoundrel !  for  his 
father's  sake." 

"  Then  he  has  not  been  taken  ?  " 

"  No,  but  there  is  no  doubt  he  will  be.  Dick  Holman, 
(the  cringing  sarpent !  I  could  pound  him  to  pomice-stone,  for 
I  have  no  idee  but  he  druv  on  the  whole  lot,)  Dick  Holman 
has  blabbed,  turned  state's  evidence,  to  save  himself,  and 
exposed  the  whole  of  'em.  Great  good  will  the  state  get 
from  such  a  rascally  knave  as  he  is ;  and  a  great  honor  is  it 
to  the  laws,  to  pay  a  premium  for  such  abominable  sneaking 
meanness  !  I  would  n't  mind  to  see  the  rest  in  iron  wrist 
bands,  (barring  Jemmy  White,  for  his  father's  sake,)  but 
Dick  Holman,  the  mean,  cowardly  villain !  hanging  is  too 
good  for  him." 

"How  many  have  they  taken  ?  " 

"  Three,  last  night.  Dick  Holrnan  helped  them  hide,  and 
so  betrayed  them.  One  has  been  traced  as  far  as  Albany, 
and  another  to  Rochester.  They  will  get  clear,  I  dare  say ; 
but  Jem  White  has  skulked  away  by  himself,  and  nobody 
knows  where  he  is.  There  were  only  seven  on  'em." 

"  Do  you  know  where  White  was  last  seen  ?  " 

"  He  was  sneaking  about,  Saturday  evening;  he  even  had 
the  barefacedness  to  go  into  Willard's  grocery  and  get  a  glass 
of  grog.  Some  pretend  to  be  sure  that  they  saw  him  yester 
day,  but  folks  make  a  thousand  mistakes  in  such  cases  ;  but 
at  any  rate,  it  is  pretty  certain  he  must  be  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood  yet.  the  old  'Sun'  press  worked  hard,  I 
tell  you,  last  night ;  and,  before  this  time,  the  handbills  are 
8 


86  LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE. 

scattered  far  and  wide,  so  that  he  can't  get  away.  And  I 
would  n't  give  an  oat-straw  for  his  hiding-place,  with  Dick 
Holman  to  scent  him  out.  He  was  prowling  about  after  him 
before  sunrise  this  morning,  and  trust  him  for  a  blood-hound, 
any  day.  Ugh !  if  they  should  let  such  a  chap  as  that  go 
scot-free,  I,  for  one,  should  rather  fancy  speaking  to  Judge 
Lynch  about  it." 

No  wonder  that  honest  Felix  Graw  should  be  exasperated 
against  the  traitorous  knave,  who,  after  leading  all  the  idle 
young  fellows  that  would  listen  to  him  into  iniquity,  turned 
deliberately  about,  and,  to  save  himself,  delivered  his  victims 
into  the  hands  of  justice.  Dick  Holman  had  been  for  years 
the  pest  of  the  neighborhood  —  one  of  those  dirty,  cringing, 
plausible  villains,  whom  everybody  despises,  but  upon  whom 
it  is  difficult  to  fix  any  crime.  When,  however,  it  was  dis 
covered  that  a  regular  system  of  robbery  had  been  carried  on 
throughout  the  county,  probably  for  several  years,  suspicion 
busied  herself  at  once  with  the  name  of  Dick  Holman ;  and 
before  he  had  time  to  concoct  any  plan  for  escape,  before  he 
even  knew  himself  suspected,  he  was  seized  and  brought,  by 
means  of  threats  and  promises,  to  divulge  all  he  knew.  And 
a  more  rotten-hearted  traitor  never  existed ;  for  now  that  his 
own  precious  person  was  in  danger,  there  was  no  indignity 
to  which  he  would  not  submit,  and  no  act  in  which  he  would 
not  gladly  engage,  (even  to  hunting  for  his  most  reluctant 
pupil,  poor  Jem  White,)  in  order  to  buy  himself  consideration. 
As  for  young  White,  he  received  but  little  sympathy  except  on 
his  father's  account ;  but  old  honest  Jacky  was,  in  his  way, 
a  great  favorite  at  Alderbrook.  There  was  scarcely  a  young 
man  in  the  village  for  whom  he  had  not  conjured  whistles 
out  of  a  slip  of  bass-wood,  in  days  gone  by ;  and  scarce  an 
old  one  but  owed  him,  poverty-stricken  as  he  was,  some  gen 
erous  neighborly  turn.  Then  it  was  from  honest  Jacky  that 
we  always  learned  where  the  blackberries  grew  thickest ;  and 
he  brought  wild-wood  plants  for  our  gardens,  and  supplied 
the  old  ladies  with  wintergreens  and  sweet  flag  roots  to 
munch  of  a  Sunday.  But  it  was  scarce  these  little  acts 


LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE.  87 

which  made  old  Jacky  White  so  universally  respected.  He 
was  the  kindest  and  simplest  of  old  men,  kind  to  man  and 
beast ;  and  if  but  a  worm  lay  in  his  path,  he  would  "  tread 
aside  and  let  the  reptile  live."  Toil,  toil,  toil,  from  morning 
till  night,  and  from  year  to  year  —  toil,  toil,  toil  was  the  lot 
of  honest  Jacky ;  but  not  a  word  of  complaint  ever  escaped 
from  his  lips ;  he  was  contented  and  cheerful,  and  scrupu 
lously  honest.  Fortune  had  treated  him  most  scurvily;  for 
notwithstanding  his  patient,  unremitting  industry,  he  had 
never  known  at  one  breakfast  what  should  serve  him  for  the 
next.  After  all,  however,  I  do  not  know  as  it  is  quite  be 
coming  for  me  to  rail  at  fortune,  since  he  never  did ;  and, 
moreover,  it  is  possible  that  the  artless  old  man  was  as  much 
in  the  fault  about  the  matter  as  the  partial  and  fickle  goddess. 

Days  went  by,  and  nothing  was  known  of  Jemmy  White. 
So  confident  was  everybody  of  the  impossibility  of  his  having 
made  his  escape,  that  parties  were  still  out  in  search  of  him 
—  and  the  zeal  of  Dick  Holman  was  indefatigable.  The 
village  was  still  in  a  state  of  feverish  excitement,  and  the 
"  stores  "  were  thronged  with  people  from  the  remote  parts  of 
the  town,  who  nocked  in  to  trade  and  hear  the  news. 

I  was  out  in  my  little  back  garden  one  bright  morning, 
spoiling  the  doings  of  the  wanton  summer  wind,  which  had 
had  quite  a  frolic  among  my  treasures  the  night  before  ;  when 
old  Bridget  came  to  the  door  on  tiptoe,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lip,  and  her  gown,  scarce  full  enough  or  rich  enough  to  make 
much  of  a  rustle,  gathered  up  in  her  hand.  "  Fanny,  Fan 
ny  !  'st ! "  Bridget  spoke  in  a  suppressed  whisper,  showing 
all  her  teeth  in  the  operation,  as  though,  by  drawing  her  lips 
far  back,  she  might  give  the  words  egress  with  less  noise. 

"  What  now,  Bridget  ? " 

"  Hush,  Fanny,  dear  !  'st ! "  and  putting  the  fore-finger  of 
one  hand  to  her  lip,  she  Reckoned  with  the  other,  making  a 
motion  with  the  elbow  joint  very  much  like  that  of  a  jack- 
knife  with  a  spring  at  the  back. 

Bridget  is  always  having  secrets,  and  shaking  her  head, 
and  looking  solemnly  wise,  and  finding  strange  mysteries, 


88  LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE. 

which  to  everybody  else  are  as  clear  as  the  sunlight ;  so  1 
may  be  pardoned  if  I  did  wait  to  tie  up  a  sweet  pea,  and  give 
three  pretty  rose-buds  a  more  desirable  position  among  the 
wet  leaves. 

"  Fanny,  darling ! "  was  again  breathed  from  the  opened 
doorway. 

"Yes,  Bridget!" 

"  Hush,  dear  !  ?st ! "  and  Bridget  beckoned  more  earnestly 
than  ever.  There  was  no  resisting  such  importunity,  so  for 
ward  Fanny  went,  fully  expecting  to  find  a  chicken  with  two 
hearts,  or  a  biscuit  that  had  hopped  out  of  the  oven  mysteri 
ously,  or  (an  every-day  occurrence)  a  churn  full  of  cream  that 
needed  a  horse-shoe  in  it. 

"  Look,  Fanny,  look  !  is  n't  she  pretty  ? " 

Pretty !  Old  Bridget  has  some  taste  at  least.  Beautiful 
as  a  vision  of  Paradise  !  I  held  in  my  breath  while  gazing,  as 
my  good  old  nurse  had  done,  and  very  probably  kept  my  lips 
out  of  its  way  precisely  in  her  fashion.  There  is  always  a 
shade  of  grey  in  the  passage  leading  to  the  kitchen ;  and 
here,  in  the  sober  light,  sat  a  little  child  sleeping.  One  arm 
was  straightened,  showing  the  pretty  dimple  at  the  elbow,  the 
fat  little  hand  supporting  her  weight  upon  the  floor,  while  the 
other  grasped,  as  though  by  way  of  a  balance,  a  basket  of 
green  lettuce,  which  had  wilted  during  her  long  walk  in  the 
morning  sun.  The  shoulder  of  the  supporting  arm  had 
slipped  up  from  the  torn  calico  frock,  and  its  polished  white 
ness  contrasted  beautifully  with  the  sun-embrowned  cheek. 
The  light  golden  hair  lay  in  waves,  pushed  far  back  from  her 
round  forehead,  and  was  gathered  up  into  a  knot,  half  curls, 
half  tangles,  behind,  probably  to  keep  it  out  of  her  way ;  but 
carelessly  as  it  was  disposed  of,  it  could  scarce  have  been  as 
beautiful  in  any  other  fashion.  Dim  as  the  light  was,  a  beam 
had  contrived  to  find  its  way  to  the  curve  of  her  head,  and 
left  a  dash  of  brightness  on  it,  no  ill  omen  to  the  wearied  little 
stranger.  Long  lashes  lay  against  the  bright  cheek,  all  spark 
ling  in  crystal ;  for  the  tear  that  could  not  climb  over  it,  had 
turned  the  little  valley  about  the  eye  into  a  well  —  a  very 


LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE.  89 

pretty  one  for  truth  to  lie  in.  The  child  had  probably  wept 
herself  to  sleep ;  but  her  little  spirit  had  gone  to  a  land  of 
brighter  things  now,  for  the  smile  that  curved  her  beautiful 
lips  had  none  of  the  premature  sadness  bathing  the  shut  eye 
lids.  There  were  broad  gaps  in  the  clumsy  shoes  that  lay 
beside  her,  for  she  had  relieved  herself  of  the  incumbrance, 
and  her  chubby  little  feet,  stained  with  the  purple  flowers 
which  she  had  crushed  in  her  morning's  ramble,  were  cooling 
themselves  against  the  bare  floor. 

"  It  is  nobody  but  little  Molly  White,  Miss,"  said  Nancy, 
coming  forward,  with  the  pot-lid  in  her  hand.  Nancy's  voice 
is  none  of  the  softest,  and  again  Bridget's  teeth  and  tongue 
were  put  in  requisition,  and  her  lips  parted  to  emit  the  expos- 
tulatory  "  'st,  'st !  " 

"  And  who  is  little  Molly  White  ?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  Molly  White,  who  used  to  go  trip 
ping  by  every  day  last  summer,  as  merry  as  a  bird,  to  sell 
blackberries  to  the  villagers,  never  seeming  tired,  though  she 
had  to  walk  three  miles  across  the  woods,  and  pick  her  berries 
besides  —  poor  thing!  But  I  remember  now  it  was  when 
you  were  in  the  city,  at  your  Uncle  Forester's,  you  know ; 
for  you  didn't  come  home  till  the  plums  were  all  gone,  and 
the  leaves  were  pretty  much  off  the  trees." 

"  Does  she  belong  in  any  way  to  old  Jacky  White,  who 
lives  in  the  woods  beyond  the  hill  ? " 

"  The  very  same,  Miss.  Old  Jacky's  last  wife  was  a 
young  woman,  and  sort  of  delicate  like,  and  she  died,  poor 
thing,  when  Molly  was  but  little  more  than  a  baby.  She 
always  said  though  that  she  did  n't  suffer  nor  want  for  any 
thing,  for  the  children  were  all  amazing  good  to  her  ;  and 
Jem,  bad  as  he  is  now,  nursed  her  almost  as  carefully  as  a 
woman.  Poor  thing  !  she  would  feel  sorrowful  enough  if  she 
know  what  a  dreadful  end  he  had  come  to,  for  she  loved  him 
as  she  did  her  own  blessed  child." 

"  I  have  seen  pretty  Moll)''  many  a  time  when  she  was  a 
baby.      She  seems  heavy-hearted  enough  now,  poor  child  ! 
we  must  try  to  cheer  her  up." 
8* 


90  LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE. 

"  It 's  of  no  use,  Miss  ;  she  takes  Jem's  misfortune  to  heart 
terribly." 

"  Misfortune !  But  you  are  right,  Nancy.  The  vicious, 
though  justice  in  the  shape  of  legal  officers  do  not  hunt  them 
down,  are  the  unfortunate  of  this  world." 

Our  conversation  seemed  to  disturb  the  sleeper,  for  sud 
denly  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eye-lids  worked  convulsively, 
her  bright  lips  quivered  like  a  little  bird  so  frightened  as 
scarce  to  struggle  for  liberty,  and  the  pretty  arm  which  sup 
ported  her  shook  beneath  the  weight. 

"  It  seems  cruel  to  wake  her,"  said  old  Bridget,  compas 
sionately.  "  This  is  a  sorry  bad  world  for  such  as  she  is, 
poor  innocent ! " 

The  child  seemed  yet  more  agitated,  and  tossed  her  fat 
round  arms  above  her  head,  while  a  broken  sob  came  strug 
gling  forth,  and,  in  a  voice  laden  with  heart-ache,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  You  shall  not  take  him  !  it  was  n't  he  that  did  it ! " 

"  Molly  !  Molly!"  exclaimed  Nancy. 

"  Mother  said  we  must  love  one  another  when  her  lips  were 
cold,  and  I  will.  I  ivill  love  poor  Jemmy.  You  shan't  —  oh, 
you  shan't  take  him  away  ! " 

"  Molly  !  Molly ! "  repeated  Nancy,  more  emphatically, 
and  shaking  the  child's  shoulder. 

"  No,  I  will  not  tell ;  never  —  never  —  never  ! " 

"  Molly  White  !  Molly  ! "    Nancy  raised  the  child  to  her 
feet,  who  looked  about  her  a  few  moments,  in  a  kind  of  be-, 
wildered  alarm,  and  then  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  which 
nothing  could  soothe. 

Poor  suffering  little  one  !  that  the  dregs  which  usually 
await  a  sterner  lip,  should  be  upon  the  brim  of  thy  beaker  ! 
that  the  drop  \vhich  sparkles  on  the  surface  of  life's  bowl, 
should  be  deadened  in  childhood's  tears  !  the  flowers  which 
crown  it,  concealing  the  strange  mixture  for  a  little  time  from 
eyes  like  thine,  fallen,  withered,  dead  !  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter 
draught  first  presented  thee  by  Fate,  (may  I  miscall  it  —  by 
sin,)  sweet  Molly  White.  What  strange  contrasts  does  this 
world  present !  That  day  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  so  replete 


LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE.  91 

with  the  everywhere  outgushing  spirit  of  joy ousness,  and  that 
poor  little  heart  aching  with  such  misery  as  the  guilty  ever 
bring  to  those  who  love  them  !  No  wonder  that  old  Bridget 
and  even  Nancy,  (blessings  on  their  kind  souls  !)  should  be 
strangely  blinded  by  the  gathering  tears  as  they  led  the  child 
away.  Throw  me  out,  wretched  and  friendless,  on  the  wide 
world,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  I  should  creep  to  the  kitchen 
rather  than  the  parlor,  though  I  know  that  generosity,  and 
kindness,  and  sympathy,  are  the  inheritance  of  no  one  condi 
tion  in  life. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  in  the  beginning  of  June.  Beauty 
smiled  up_  from  the  earth  ;  beauty  bent  to  us  from  the  bright 
sky  ;  beauty,  a  delicious,  all-pervading  kind  of  beauty,  which 
often  makes  the  spirit  drunk  with  happiness,  shone  out  upon 
us  everywhere.  It  was  not  a  day  to  be  wasted  in-doors,  when 
the  balmy  airs,  the  warm  wet  skies,  and  the  quivering  life-full 
foliage,  were  all  wooing  without ;  and  we  have  no  hot  pave 
ments  to  flash  back  the  light  into  our  faces,  or  cramped-up 
streets,  where  the  air  is  stifled  into  sickliness  before  it  meets 
us,  at  Alderbrook.  The  broad  wavy  meadow,  spangled  all 
over  with  bright  blossoms,  is  our  magnificent  thoroughfare ; 
and  when  the  sun  shines  too  brilliantly  the  brave  old  trees 
rear  for  us  a  rare  canopy  in  the  forests.  The  little  wizard 
stream,  leaping  and  dancing  over  the  rocks,  to  drop  itself  into 
the  brook  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  the  long  cool  shadows 
lying  on  the  grass  beside  the  trees,  each  had  a  magic  in  them 
which,  was  quite  irresistible.  So  I  went  out,  and  sauntered 
dreamily  adown  the  meadow,  with  half-shut  eyes  and  a  deli 
cious  sense  of  pleasure  stealing  over  me,  at  each  pressure  of 
my  foot  upon  the  yielding  carpet.  Crossing  the  little  log- 
bridge  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  I  picked  my  way  among  the 
alders  on  the  other  side,  close  by  the  marge  of  the  stream. 
Myriads  of  little  pearl-white  blossoms  bent  their  soft  lips  to 
the  wave  which  bounded  to  meet  them  ;  and  side  by  side 
with  them,  the  double-bladed  iris  sent  up  its  sword-shaped 
leaves,  as  proudly  as  in  its  prime,  though  the  bare  stalks 
which  grew  from  its  centre  were  all  stripped  of  their  bios- 


92  LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE. 

soms.  The  queen  of  the  meadow  stood  up  in  its  regal  beauty, 
not  far  from  the  water's  edge ;  further  back  the  spotted  lily 
nodded  gracefully  on  its  curved  stem,  and  the  crimson  tufts 
of  the  balm-flower  nestled  in  clusters  of  green  shrubbery ; 
while  the  narrow  leaf  of  the  willow  turned  out  its  silver  lin 
ing,  and  the  aspen  quivered  all  over,  like  a  loving  heart  blest 
with  its  prayer,  above.  Beyond,  tier  on  tier,  rose  galleries  of 
green,  with  but  a  step  between  the  uppermost  and  heaven,  all 
radiant  in  the  luxurious  garniture  of  June.  How  glorious 
arid  grand,  and  full  of  life  was  everything  —  and  how  my 
nature  expanded  in  the  midst  of  it  as  it  would  embrace  the 
whole  universe.  I  know  there  are  moments  on  this  side  the 
grave  when  the  shackles  of  clay  do  really  fall  off,  and  our 
spirits  grow  large,  as  though  they  had  looked  into  the  bound 
lessness  of  eternity,  and  we  lift  a  wing  with  the  angels.  But 
we  come  back  again,  dazzled  and  bewildered;  for  we  are 
prisoners  in  a  very  little  cell,  and  too  large  a  draught  of 
heaven  now  would  not  be  good  for  us.  I  dallied  long  about 
the  brook  and  on  the  verge  of  the  forest,  seeing  and  dream 
ing  ;  and  then  I  wandered  on,  now  listening  to  the  joyous 
song-gushes  of  the  crazy-hearted  little  Bob-o-link  ;  now  laugh 
ing  at  the  antic  red  squirrel,  as  his  tiny  brick-colored  banner 
whisked  from  fence  to  tree ;  and  now  gathering  handfuls  of 
the  pale  sweet-scented  wood-violets,  which  follow  the  first  frail 
children  of  the  spring.  Then  there  were  large  banks  of  moss, 
of  brown,  and  green,  and  gold,  all  richly  wrought  together, 
as  by  the  fingers  of  bright  lady-elves,  and  more  elastic  than 
the  most  gorgeous  fabrics  of  the  Persian  looms,  with  now  and 
then  a  little  vine  straggling  over  them,  strung  with  crimson 
berries ;  the  sun  breaking  through  the  closely  interlaced 
'branches  above  in  little  gushes  of  light,  which  quivered  as 
they  fell,  and  vanished  and  came  again,  as  coquettishly  as  the 
bright-throated  humming-bird,  which  frolicked  gracefully  with 
the  pink  blossoms  of  the  azalia,  in  the  hollow  beyond.  These 
were  interspersed  with  little  patches  of  winter-green,  tender 
and  spicy,  of  which  I  of  course  secured  a  plentiful  supply  ; 
and  clusters  of  the  snowy  monotropa  appeared  at  the  roots  of 


LITTLE  MOLLY  WHITE.  93 

trees,  clear  and  polished  and  pearl-like  ;  and  green  ferns  grew 
beside  old  logs,  half  wreathed  over  with  ivy  —  and  everything 
there,  from  the  golden  moss-cup  to  the  giant  tree,  looking  up 
into  heaven,  shared  my  thoughts  and  love. 

Then  I  went  on,  next  stooping  to  pull  from  the  dark  loose 
soil  the  Long  slim  roots  of  the  wild  sarsaparilla;  and  close 
beside  them  I  discovered  the  nest  of  a  darling  little  ground- 
bird,  which  flew  away  and  came  back  again,  fluttering  about 
most  pleadingly:  and  so  I  left  the  graceful  innocent,  without 
even  taking  a  peep  at  the  four  speckled  eggs,  which  probably 
constituted  its  treasure. 

The  sun  was  quite  low  when  I  drew  near  the  Sachem's 
wood,  an  immense  wilderness  to  the  southeast  of  Alderbrook, 
better  known  by  sportsmen  than  any  one  else.  Some  poker- 
ish  story  of  the  Indian  days  first  gave  rise  to  the  name  ;  and 
so  there  was  a  superstition  connected  with  it  which  kept 
timid  people  (children,  at  least)  aloof.  Moreover,  old  An- 
toine  committed  his  murder  there ;  and  it  was  more  than 
half  suspected  that  some  of  Jake  Gawsley's  gold  might  be 
hidden  among  the  jagged  rocks  and  deep  gulleys  of  the 
Sachem's  wood.  However  that  might  be,  the  mysterious  pro 
verb  that  the  "  Sachem's  wood  could  bring  no  good,"  had  been 
quite  sufficient  to  prevent  my  young  feet  from  tempting  the 
spirits  of  evil  on  the  other  side  of  the  stump  fence  which 
walled  it  in.  But  I  felt  some  inclination  now  to  take  a  peep 
into  the  banned  forest,  and  so,  scaling  the  fantastical  barrier 
as  I  best  might,  I  sprang  to  a  bank  as  mossy  and  as  bright 
with  the  sunshine  as  any  we  had  on  the  other  side.  The 
air  was  fresh  and  pure,  and  there  was  a  scent  of  wild-flowers 
on  it  which  made  me  feel  quite  safe ;  for  flowers  always 
betray  the  presence  of  angels.  So  I  wandered  on  indolently 
as  before,  now  plucking  a  leaf,  now  watching  dreamily  the 
shadows  which  were  fast  chasing  away  the  sunlight,  until  I 
began  to  suspect  it  quite  time  to  return  home.  It  was  nearly 
twilight,  and  I  had  not  seen  the  sun  go  down.  A  few  steps 
further  only,  and  then  1  would  go ;  but  there  was  a  pretty 
silvery  tinkle  just  ahead,  which  might  lead  to  the  lurkiug 


94  LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE. 

place  of  a  troop  of  fairies.  The  sound  proceeded  from  the 
self-same  little  stream  which  trips  it  over  the  rocks  to  the 
east  of  Strawberry-hill,  and  comes  dancing  and  sparkling 
down  to  the  brook  at  the  foot.  It  was  gurgling  along  quite 
gayly  at  the  bottom  of  a  chasm,  so  dark  that,  as  I  knelt  on 
the  crag  above,  and  leaned  over,  it  was  some  minutes  before 
I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  silver-voiced  musician.  The 
ravine  was  exceedingly  narrow,  looking  as  though  the 
Sachem  (who  was  probably  a  giant)  might  have  split  it  apart 
with  an  immense  hatchet ;  but  the  feat  was  evidently  per 
formed  a  long  time  ago.  for  it  was  all  mossed  over,  long 
wreaths  of  green  flaunted  from  little  clefts  on  either  side,  and 
the  pretty  blue-bell  from  the  tip  of  its  lithe  stem  nodded 
smilingly  to  its  noisy  neighbor  among  the  pebbles.  I  was 
rising  to  go  away,  when  a  sound  like  the  tread  of  some  light 
animal  made  me  pause.  It  came  again,  and  then  followed 
a  scrambling  noise  and  a  rustle  like  the  bending  of  twigs 
laden  with  foliage ;  and  I  looked  carefully  about  me,  for  I 
might  not  be  quite  pleased  with  the  company  I  should  meet 
in  the  Sachem's  wood.  This  gorge  must  be  very  nearly  in  a 
line  with  the  haunted  saw-mill,  which  is  reported  to  he  ten 
anted  by  the  wandering  spirit  of  old  Jake  Gawsely,  and  who 
knows  but  the  miser  himself  may  now  and  then  come  out  at 
dew-fall  to  look  after  his  concealed  treasures.  My  view  was 
partially  obstructed  by  a  wild  gooseberry  bush,  and  when  I 
raised  my  head  above  it  I  saw,  not  the  troubled  spirit  of  a 
dead  old  man,  but  a  beautiful  child,  standing  on  the  point  of 
a  rock,  and  looking  cautiously  about  her  as  though  fearful  of 
being  observed.  It  was  little  Molly  White,  and  I  was  about 
calling  to  her ;  when,  as  though  satisfied  with  her  scrutiny 
she  swung  herself  from  the  rock,  clinging  by  her  little  fingers 
to  the  jagged  points,  poised  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  and  then 
dropped  on  the  platform  below.  Here  she  again  looked 
about  her,  and  I  drew  back  my  head  ;  for  I  had  had  time  for 
a  second  thought,  and  I  knew  that  no  trifling  thing  could 
bring  the  child  to  the  banned  forest  alone.  Beside  she  car 
ried  on  her  arm  a  basket  evidently  well-laden,  which  impeded 


LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE.  95 

her  progress  very  much,  and  a  suspicion  far  from  agreeable 
crept  over  me  as  I  again  leaned  my  head  over  the  ledge. 
The  child  descended  with  the  agility  of  a  kitten :  and  when 
at  last  she  reached  the  bottom,  she  looked  earnestly  up  and 
down  the  ravine,  starting  now  and  then,  stretching  forward 
her  little  head,  as  though  fearful  that  the  moving  shadows 
might  deceive  her.  As  soon  as  she  became  satisfied  that  she 
was  not  observed,  she  sent  out  a  low  clear  sound  like  a  bird- 
note,  which  was  immediately  answered  by  a  suppressed 
whistle.  She  sprang  forward  and  was  met  half-way  by  a 
man,  who  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  rock  just  beneath 
me. 

"  Where  on  earth  have  you  been  staying,  Moll  ? "  he  ex 
claimed,  half  angrily.  "  I  have  fed  on  nothing  but  ground 
nuts  and  beech  leaves  these  two  days,  and — ha !  I  hope  you 
have  something  palatable  in  your  basket.  Does  your  arm 
ache,  chicky  ?  This  is  a  heavy  load  for  such  little  hands  to 
carry.  But  where  have  you  been  ?  I  did  n't  know  but  they 
had  nabbed  you  for  your  good  deeds,  and  meant  to  starve. me 
out.  Bless  me^Moll,  how  you  tremble  !" 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  so  frightened,  Jemmy.  Dick  Holman 
suspects  all  about  it  —  " 

"Curse  Dick  Holman!" 

"  Some  of  the  other  men  have  told  how  I  ran  to  you  the 
night  that  the  officers  took  them,  and  he  thinks  I  know 
where  you  are  now.  He  said  they  would  hang  me,  Jemmy, 
if  I  wouldn't  tell  —  will  they  hang  me  ?" 

The  beautiful  face  was  upturned,  with  such  sweet  anxious 
meekness,  that  the  well-nigh  hardened  brother  seemed 
touched,  and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  reply. 

"  Will  they  hang  me,  Jemmy  ?" 

"  No,  Molly,  no !  they  will  never  harm  a  hair  of  your 
head.  But  let  me  tell  you,  chick,  you  mustn't  listen  to  one 
word  from  that  devil  incarnate — he  will  be  hiring  you  to 
betray  me  yet." 

"  Dick  Holman  ?  Oh  no  !  he  can't  hire  me.  He  took  out 
a  whole  handful  of  dollars,  but  I  would  n't  look  at  them,  and 


96  LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE. 

he  said  he  would  give  me  a  new  frock  and  a  pretty  bonnet, 
like  the  village  girls,  but  I  did  n't  answer  him  a  word.  It 
was  then  he  said  —  and  he  spoke  dreadful,  dreadful  words, 
Jemmy  —  that  he  would  have  me  hanged.  Do  you  think  he 
can  ?  I  am  sure  he  will  if  he  can.  I  was  always  afraid  of 
him,  he  looks  at  me  so  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  goes 
creeping  about  as  lightly  as  a  cat,  so  that  one  never  knows 
when  he  is  coming." 

"  Never  fear,  Moll,  he  can't  hurt  you,"  replied  the  brother, 
still  swallowing  down  the  huge  slices  of  meat  like  a  starved 
hound.  "  I  only  wish  I  had  him  again  in  the  place  he  was 
when  I  fished  him  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  horse-pond — 
he  would  beg  one  while  for  daylight  before  he  should  see  it." 

"  Oh,  Jemmy  —  " 

"  Hang  me  if  he  would  n't !  That 's  what  a  man  gets  by 
being  good-natured.  Dick  Holman  always  pocketed  two- 
thirds  of  the  money,  and  never  run  any  danger." 

"  Jemmy !  Jemmy  ! "  exclaimed  the  child,  in  a  tone  of 
sorrowful  reproach,  "You  told  me  you  didn't  do  it!  You 
told  me  you  never  took  any  money,  and  now. — " 

"  And  now  I  hav'n't  told  you  anything  different,  little 
Miss  sanctimony;  so  don't  run  away  from  me,  and  leave  me 
to  starve." 

"  But  you  ought  to  tell  me  the  truth,  Jemmy — you  know 
it  would  n't  make  me  care  the  less  for  you  —  though — Oh! 
it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  a  thief!  " 

"Well,  you  are  not  a  thief,  nor — nor  I  either,  so  save 
your  sermons  and  —  you  might  have  brought  me  a  little 
brandy,  Moll." 

The  child  sat  down  on  the  mossed  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree, 
and  made  no  answer. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Dick  Holman  watched  me." 

"  Blast  him  !  The  curses  o'  Heaven  light—  " 

Truth  does  not  require  the  oaths  and  imprecations  of  bad 
men  to  be  written  down,  and  if  it  did  I  could  hardly  give  the 
words  of  poor  Jem  White ;  for  there  in  the  solemn  woods, 


LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE.  97 

amid  the  falling  shadows,  I  will  own  that  the  hoarse  voice  of 
the  miserable  man  inspired  me  with  so  much  terror  that  I 
could  scarcely  hear  him.  But  I  saw  the  little  girl  rise  slowly 
and  sorrowfully  from  her  seat. 

"  Jemmy,  I  cannot  stay  here,  for  I  know  you  are  a  bad, 
wicked  man,  and  I  am  afraid  of  you." 

"  Afraid,  Moll !  ha,  ha,  ha !  that 's  a  good  one !  you 
afraid  !  And  you  came  over  to  the  log-barn  at  midnight, 
when  the  officers  were  out,  without  flinching  a  hair.  Afraid  ? " 

"  You  told  me  then  you  did  n't  do  it,  Jemmy,  and  I 
thought  you  didn't.  Oh,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  a  thief! 
Dreadful!  dreadful!" 

"  But  Molly,  chick,  you  would  n't  let  them  take  me,  and 
shut  me  up  in  a  dark  prison — State  Prison  —  Jem  White  in 
State's  Prison  !  think  on 't,  Moll ! " 

The  child  sank  down  on  the  rocks  and  sobbed  as  though 
her  little  heart  would  break  ;  while  her  brother  worked  more 
voraciously  than  ever  at  the  contents  of  the  basket. 

"  I  '11  tell  'ee  what,  Moll,"  he  at  last  said,  "  if  you  could 
coax  up  father  to  take  me  home  —  can't  you  ?  Nobody  would 
ever  mistrust  him." 

"  No,  Jemmy ;  it  was  father  who  first  made  me  believe 
you  had  not  spoken  truth  to  me.  He  said,  too,  last  night, 
that  if  he  could  find  you  he  would  give  you  up  himself,  in 
the  hope  that  it  would  do  you  good." 

"  Good !  A sight  of  good  it  would  do  me  !  Cuss  it, 

Moll—" 

"  Jemmy,"  exclaimed  the  child,  starting  to  her  feet,  and 
standing  before  him  with  more  dignity  than  her  beautiful 
bright  face  gave  promise  of,  "  Jemmy,  I  will  not  hear  another 
bad  word  from  you.  What  I  have  done  for  you  may  be 
wicked,  but  I  could  n't  help  it.  Mother  told  me  to  love  you, 
when  her  lips  against  my  cheek  were  cold  ;  and  I  will  bring 
you  victuals  and  tell  you  if  I  hear  you  are  in  danger,  but  you 
shall  not  use  those  wicked  words  —  I  will  not  hear  you." 

"  Bless  me,  Moll !  I  have  said  nothing  to  make  you  take 
on  so,  and  if  you  like  it,  you  may  go  and  tell  Dick  Holman 
9 


98  LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE. 

where  I  am,  and  get  your  smart  frock  and  Sunday  bonnet,  to 
say  your  Scripture  lessons  in.  I  dare  say  they  will  tell  you 
it 's  a  fine  thing  to  send  your  brother  to  State  Prison — a 
mighty  fine  thing,  Moll,  and  you  will  be  a  little  wonder 
among  'em." 

"  You  shan't  swear,  at  any  rate,  Jemmy ;  for  the  great  God, 
who  sees  everything,  will  be  angry  with  you,  and  he  will  let 
them  find  where  you  are  if  you  are  so  wicked.  You 
know  —  " 

"I  know  you  are  a  good  little  child,  Moll  —  too  good  for 
that  matter — so  cease  your  blubbering,  chicky,  and  tell  me 
how  matters  are  going  in  the  village,  and  whether  Jesse 
Swift  or  Ned  Sloman  have  confessed." 

The  child  sat  down  and  gave  a  circumstantial  account  of 
all  that  had  occurred  during  the  few  past  days,  and  then 
added,  "  They  say  that  you  will  be  taken  before  a  week's 
end,  Jemmy,  for  they  all  seem  sure  that  you  hav'n't  got 
away." 

"  Aha  !  they  don't  know  what  a  nice  little  sister  I  have  for 
a  jailer.  But  you  must  go  now,  Moll,  for  father  will  be 
missing  you,  and  then  we  shall  have  a  pretty  how-de-do. 
Scramble  back,  chickey-pet,  and  mind  that  you  keep  a  sharp 
look-out  on  Dick  Holman.  This  is  a  jewel  of  a  place,  but 
he  might  track  you  to  it  when  you  hadn't  a  thought  of  him. 
Come  to-morrow,  if  you  can,  for  the  bread  and  meat  will 
scarce  serve  me  for  breakfast,  let  alone  the  lunch  that  I  must 
take,  since  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  before  sleeping.  You 
calculated  for  your  own  little  stomach  when  you  put  it  up  for 
me." 

"  I  brought  all  we  had,  Jemmy,  and  I  went  without  my 
own  dinner  and  supper  to  make  it  more." 

"Well,  you  are  a  nice  child,  Moll,  and  I  won't  do  any 
thing  to  bother  you.  Come  to-morrow,  and  I  wont  worry 
your  pretty  ears  with  a  word  of  swearing.  You  are  a  darl 
ing  little  jailer,  and  —  there  —  good-night,  Molly." 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  the  bright  cheek  of  the  little  girl,  and 
held  her  for  a  moment  in  his  arms,  then  set  her  on  a  platform 


LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE.  99 

just  by  his  head,  and  watched   her  difficult  ascent  till  she 
again  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  ravine. 

"  Safe  ! "  shouted  little  Molly  White,  almost  gleefully,  as  she 
leaned  for  a  moment  over  the  chasm.  She  was  answered  by 
a  whistle,  and  the  pretty  child  clapped  her  hands,  as  though 
she  now  felt  at  liberty  to  be  happy  once  more,  and  bounded 
away.  She  went  only  a  few  steps,  however,  and  then 
relumed,  and  kneeling  once  more  on  the  twisted  roots  of  a 
tall  elm  tree  that  grew  upon  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  peered 
anxiously  clown  the  gorge.  My  eyes  involuntarily  turned  in 
the  same  direction.  It  seemed  to  me  at  first  as  though  the 
shadows  were  strangely  busy ;  then  I  saw  them  making  reg 
ular  strides  up  the  ravine,  and  a  faint  sickly  feeling  crept 
over  me,  so  that  I  drew  back  my  head,  and  closed  my  eyes. 
When  I  looked  again  I  saw  distinctly  the  figures  of  three 
men,  one  a  little  in  advance  of  the  others,  making  their  way 
up  the  dark  gully  of  the  Sachem's  woods.  Would  they  pass 
by  the  hiding-place  of  Jem  White,  or  had  his  hour  come  at 
last,  and  must  that  anxious  little  watcher  at  the  foot  of  the 
elm-tree,  look  helplessly  on  a  scene  that  would  wring  her 
young  heart  with  agony.  Bright  Molly  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  made  a  discover)'- ;  for  she  uttered  a  piercing  shriek, 
which  rang  through  the  gray  forest  with  startling  wildness, 
and  catching  by  the  bough  which  had  before  assisted  her 
descent,  she  attempted  again  to  swing  herself  to  the  first 
rocky  platform.  But,  in  her  fright,  the  little  hand  missed  its 
grasp ;  the  spring  was  made,  and  the  bright-eyed  child  was 
precipitated  to  the  bottom  of  the  gorge.  Jemmy  White  had 
heard  the  warning  shriek,  and  rushed  out  in  time  to  see  the 
fall  of  his  sister  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  traitor,  Holman 
leading  on  the  officers  of  justice,  but  a  few  rods  from  his  lair. 
What  would  he  do  ?  He  was  probably  familiar  with  every 
secret  lurking-place  in  that  immense  wilderness,  and  night 
was  coming  on,  so  that  it  might  be  no  difficult  thing  for  him 
to  make  his  escape.  At  least  his  long  limbs  and  hardy 
frame  warranted  him  the  victory  in  a  race,  for  Dick  Holman 
was  a  short,  clumsily  built  man,  and  his  companions  would 


100  LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITE. 

soon  weary  of  clambering  over  the  rocks.  Jemmy  White's 
reflections  seemed  of  the  precise  nature  of  mine ;  for,  after 
throwing  one  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  another  up  the 
ravine,  he  bounded  forward,  and  sprang  across  the  body  of 
his  sister,  touching,  as  he  went,  hen  little  quivering  arm  with 
his  foot.  Suddenly  the  man's  bold  face  was  blanched,  he 
seemed  to  waver,  and  then  casting  another  hurried  glance 
behind  him,  he  made  an  effort  to  go  on,  but  his  limbs  refused 
their  office ;  a  heavy  groan,  replete  with  agony,  came  up 
from  the  depths  of  the  gorge;  and  Jemmy  White  paused, 
cowering  over  the  inanimate  child  as  though  the  two  had 
been  alone  in  the  forest.  The  men  came  up  and  laid  their 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  but  he  did  not  look  at  them,  nor  in 
any  way  heed  their  presence ;  he  only  chafed  the  hands  of 
the  little  girl,  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  entreated  her  to 
open  her  eyes,  for  her  own  brother  Jem  was  there,  and  it 
would  break  his  heart  if  she  should  not  speak  to  him.  The 
two  officers,  with  the  delicacy  which  the  heart  teaches  to  the 
rudest  of  men,  stood  back ;  but  Dick  Holman  still  continued 
his  grasp  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  criminal,  as  though  to 
assure  his  companions  that  he  understood  this  mummery 
much  better  than  they  did.  The  scene  lasted  —  how  long  I 
cannot  say — it  seemed  to  me  ages.  Finally  one  of  the  offi 
cers  came  forward  with  a  coil  of  rope  in  his  hand,  and  in 
timated  his  intention  to  bind  the  prisoner.  Jemmy  White 
rose  from  his  crouching  posture  to  his  knees,  and  looked  up 
as  though  vainly  endeavoring  to  comprehend  the  movements 
of  the  men  ;  then  he  lifted  the  precious  burden  at  his  feet  to 
his  bosom,  and  clasped  his  arms  about  her  closely  as  though 
afraid  she  might  be  forced  from  him. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  he  said,  meekly;  with  a  dead  heart 
ache  weighing  on  every  word,  as  it  dropped  painfully  and 
slowly  from  his  lips.  "  I  will  go  with  you ;  but  don't 
bind  me.  I  won't  get  away ;  I  won't  try.  It  don't  matter 
what  becomes  of  me,  now  I  have  killed  little  Molly.  Stand 
off,  Dick  Holman !  take  your  hand  from  my  shoulder,  and 
stand  away !  You  made  m-e,  do  it !  I  should  have  been  a 


LITTLE    MOLLY   WHITB.  101 

decent  man,  if  you  had  kept  away  from  me,  and  poor  Molly 
—  ay  stand  off!  it  may  not  be  safe  for  you  to  come  too  near  !" 

"  We  had  better  bind  him,"  said  one  of  the  men,  glancing 
at  his  companion  for  approbation. 

"  No,  no ;  leave  me  my  arms,  for  Molly's  sake,  and  walk 
close  beside  me,  if  you  are  afraid.  I  won't  try  to  run  away. 
It 's  of  no  use  now  —  no  use  —  no  use  !" 

Jemmy  White's  lips  moved  mechanically,  still  repeating 
the  last  words ;  and  the  officer  crammed  the  coil  of  rope  into 
h.s  pocket  again,  and  moved  on  beside  the  sobered  prisoner 
notwithstanding  the  cautionary  gestures  and  meaning  glances 
of  Dick  Holman. 

That  night,  the  arrest  of  Jem  White  and  the  dreadful  ac 
cident  which  had  befallen  his  little  sister,  were  the  subjects 
of  conversation  at  every  fireside;  and  much  softening  of  heart 
was  there  toward  the  wretched  prisoner,  when  it  was  known 
that  he  owed  his  arrest  to  the  humanity  which  was  only 
stifled,  not  dead,  within  him. 

When  poor  little  Molly  White  opened  her  bright  eyes 
again,  she  was  in  the  cell  of  a  prison ;  for  it  would  have  been 
death  to  the  agonized  brother  to  have  her  taken  from  him, 
and  even  honest  Jacky,  notwithstanding  his  stern,  unwaver 
ing  integrity,  and  his  abhorrence  of  the  slightest  deviation 
from  it,  had  plead  earnestly  for  this  indulgence.  Besides, 
Molly  White  must  be  taken  care  of  somewhere  at  the  expense 
of  the  county,  and  there  was  no  poor-house ;  so  Jem's  prayer 
was  granted. 

When  she  awoke  to  consciousness,  she  looked  earnestly 
into  the  face  of  her  brother,  who  was  leaning  over  her,  bath 
ing  her  temples  as  tenderly  as  a  mother  could  have  done ; 
and  then  glanced  upon  the  gloomy  walls  and  scanty  furniture 
of  her  sick  chamber. 

"Where  are  we?  Did  tney  find  you,  Jemmy?"  she 
inquired  —  "  Dick  Holman  and  those  other  men?" 

The  tears  rained  over  the  bronzed  cheeks  of  the  prisoner 
in  torrents ;  and  the  child  wiped  them  away  with  her  little 


1Q2  LITTsLE    MOLLY    WHITE. 


dimpled  hands,  whispering  softly,  "  I  am  sorry  I  called  you 
a  bad  man,  Jemmy." 

"  Bad,  Molly !  Oh,  I  am  very,  very  bad ! "  sobbed  the 
repentant  criminal. 

"  But  you  are  sorry,  Jemmy,"  and  the  little  round  arms 
nrere  folded  over  the  neck  which  they  had  often  clasped  most 
lovingly  before  ;  but  never  with  such  touching  tenderness. 
'  And  so  the  angels  love  you  dearly,  for  the  good  Bible  says 
lhat  they  are  gladder  for  one  man  who  is  sorry  for  being 
wicked,  than  for  a  great  many  men  that  never  do  wrong. 
The  angels  love  you,  Jemmy ;  and  mother  is  an  angel  now." 

"  She  used  to  love  me,  and  beg  me  not  to  get  into  bad 
ways  ;  but  I  almost  broke  her  heart,  sometimes,  Molly !  " 

"Well,  she  loves  you  yet;  and  you  are  very  sorry  for 
what  you  have  done;  and  so  —  we  shall  be  happy,  oh,  so 
happy !  " 

The  prisoner  glanced  about  his  cell,  and  his  brow  was 
contracted  with  pain. 

"  I  know  where  we  are,  Jemmy,  for  I  have  looked  in  here 
before ;  and  it  is  better,  a  great  deal  better,  than  hiding  in  the 
woods.  I  am  glad  they  let  me  be  with  you  ;  I  am  not  afraid 
here,  for  you  are  good  now,  and  just  as  sorry  for  being  wick 
ed  as  ever  you  can  be.  We  will  live  here  always,  Jemmy, 
if  they  will  let  us  ;  and  then  we  shall  always  be  good.  Don't 
cry,  Jemmy.  I  wish  you  would  fix  my  head —  a  little  nearer 
your  cheek  —  there,  so;  —  now  kiss  me  and  I  shall  go  to 
sleep." 

How  different  that  sleep  from  the  one  I  had  admired  a  few 
days  earlier !  But  the  child  was  far  happier  now. 

Perhaps  the  strong  interest  excited  by  the  accident  to  little 
Molly  might  have  operated  in  Jem  White's  favor  quite  as 
much  as  his  own  simple,  unobtrusive  penitence ;  but  popular 
sympathy  followed  him  to  his  cell,  and  remained  by  his  side 
during  the  trial.  So  true  and  heartfelt  was  this  sympathy, 
that  there  was  a  general  elongation  of  countenance  when  he 
was  condemned,  and  a  universal,  and,  for  a  moment,  uncon 
trollable  burst  of  applause  when  he  was  recommended  to 


LITTLE    MOLLY    WHITE.  103 

imrcy.  As  some  palliating  circumstances  came  to  light 
during  the  trial,  it  was  not  difficult  to  obtain  a  pardon  for 
Jem  White ;  and  I  am  sure  no  one  at  Alderbrook  regrets  the 
exercise  of  clemency  in  his  behalf.  To  be  sure,  his  trial  has 
been  of  only  six  months'  duration ;  but  he  is  so  gentle  and 
kind,  and  withal  so  sober,  and  industrious,  and  contented, 
that  everybody  places  entire  confidence  in  his  reformation. 
Bold,  bad  Jem  White  has  become  strangely  like  his  father; 
and  the  good  old  man  goes  about,  calling  on  everybody  (for 
honest  Jacky  knows  that  he  has  a  friend  in  everybody  at 
Alderbrook)  to  rejoice  with  him,  for  he  is  more  blest  than 
any  other  mortal;  while  his  simple  heart  swells  more  than 
ever  with  gratitude  to  God  and  love  to  man.  As  for  darling 
little  Molly,  she  is  one  of  those  guileless  creatures  often 
doomed  —  nay,  not  doomed  —  so  blessed,  I  should  have  said, 
as  to  live  for  the  good  of  others.  Her  bright  face  has  grown 
thin  and  pale  with  suffering,  but  there  is  a  sweeter  smile  on 
it  than  ever ;  and  when  Jemmy  carries  her  in  his  arms,  as  he 
does  every  Sabbath,  to  the  village  church,  she  tells  him  how 
glad  she  is  for  the  accident  which  has  crippled  her,  because 
it  has  given  her  such  a  dear  resting-place.  Little  Molly  will 
probably  never  be  straight  again  —  perhaps  she  never  will 
walk  —  but  she  smiles  at  the  prospect,  and  talks  cheerfully 
of  the  wings  which  will  be  given  her  in  heaven. 

Dick  Holman,  alarmed  by  some  rather  hostile  demonstra 
tions  on  the  part  of  Felix  Graw  and  a  few  other  determined 
spirits  of  the  neighborhood,  disappeared  from  among  us  on 
the  day  he  was  set  at  liberty,  and  has  never  since  honored 
Alderbrook  with  his  prese  ice. 


104 


MY    OLD    PLAYMATE. 

CHARLEY  HILL  was  an  old  playmate  of  mine  —  a  saucy, 
good-natured,    mischief-doing,  flower-loving,    warm-hearted, 
gentle,  brave  little  playmate  —  and  many  a  tale   might  the 
green-mossed  stones  lying  among  the  alder-roots  on  the  bor 
der  of  the  lazy  brook,  and  the  tall  grass  that  waves  on  the 
hillside,  tell  of  our  young  gambols.     Oh  !  those  rare,  bright 
days  —  the  days  of  my  childhood  !     How  I  wish  that  I  could 
make  a  compromise  with  the   old  fellow  of  the  hour-glass, 
and  save  a  handful  of  his  sand  from  the  end  of  my  term,  to 
glitter  in  the  sunshine  of  the  beginning  —  for  myself  do  I 
most  sincerely  wish  it ;  but  more,  much  more,  for  thee,  poor 
Charley  Hill !     Some  people  are  born  with  a  shadow  on  the 
brow,  a  shadow  which  refuses  to  be   removed,  though  the 
wheel  of  life  should  roll  forever  in  prosperity ;   yet  I  have 
known  the  sad  gift  to  be  accompanied  by  a  spirit  which  mel 
lowed  and  softened  it,  till  the  apparent  curse  proved  a  blessing. 
But  my  old  playmate  was  not  one  of  these.     No  cloud  was 
on  his  face  or  his  fortunes.     The  light  centred  in  his  gay 
heart  shone  from  parted  lip  and  beaming  eye,  and  was  scat 
tered  without   stint  on  all  who   came   near  him.     A  frank, 
jovial   boy  was    Charley  Hill,  in   those   play-days ;    with  a 
ready  hand,  a  ready  smile,  and  a  ready  wit ;   to  say  nothing 
of  the  charmingest  of  all  charming  hand-sleds,  and  a  very 
discriminating   little    fowling-piece,    which    he    assured  me 
never  shot  anything  but  crows.     No  boy  at  Alderbrook  had 
so  handsome  a  face  as  Charley — that  everybody  said ;   and 
no  boy  had  so  handsome  a  cap,  (that  bright  purple  velvet, 
with  the  two  silken  tassels  dangling  so  gracefully  from  the 
apex,)  nor   so  white   a  collar,  nor   such  a  "cunning"  little 
jacket  —  though  that  everybody  did  not  say.     Little  girls  are 
much  better  initiated  in  such  mysteries  than  older  people. 


MY    OLD   PLAYMATE.  105 

I  will  not  assert  that  my  old  playmate,  Charley,  was  a 
perfectly  faultless  lad ;  for  who  but  his  own  naughty  self  was 
the  occasion  of  my  travelling  about  two  mortal  hours,  my 
hands  tied  fast  to  the  schoolmistress'  girdle,  just  because  he 
lured  me  down  to  the  brookside  to  angle  for  trout  with  a 
crocked  pin,  when  stupid  people  thought  I  should  have  been 
poring  over  Webster's  "  elementary  ?  "  And  who  but  that 
wicked  little  scapegrace  of  a  Charley,  with  his  winsome  ways 
and  generous  little  heart,  led  me  to  spoil  my  new  white  cam 
bric  apron  as  I  did  the  first  time  I  wore  it  ?  Who  but  Char 
ley  could  have  done  it  ?  I  will  tell  the  story  to  all  who 
remember  well  when  they  were  children ;  but  those  whose 
memories  cannot  look  back  through  the  crust  upon  the  heart, 
will  do  well  to  turn  away  to  something  wiser.  We  had  a 
grand  tea-party  at  my  baby-house  under  the  old  black  cherry 
tree,  and  our  dolls  must  have  been  surfeited  with  the  luxuries 
spread  before  them.  There  was  one  thing  in  our  feast,  on 
which  we  prided  ourselves  not  a  little  —  a  dish  of  pretty  crim 
son  balls,  made  of  the  wool  that  a  dozen  little  fingers  had 
busied  themselves  in  picking  from  Debby  Jones'  red  petti 
coat,  nicely  imbedded  in  a  snowy  pile  of  soap  suds  —  an 
excellent  substitute  for  strawberries  and  cream.  Just  before 
the  party  broke  up,  who  should  make  his  appearance  but 
Charley  Hill ;  but  when  called  upon  to  admire  our  ingenuity, 
our  climax  of  witty  inventions,  he  manifested  a  very  boy-like 
indifference,  and  said  nothing  but  "  pooh  !  "  Charley  might 
have  argued  the  point  a  week,  while  we  in  defending  it  might 
have  become  so  earnest  as  to  eat  our  mock  strawberries ;  but 
that  contemptuous  "pooh !  "  was  too  much.  While  the  little 
gtrls,  with  disconcerted  faces,  were  turning  elsewhere  for 
diversion,  Charley  took  me  aside  confidentially.  There  were 
strawberries  a  plenty  just  over  the  brook ;  a  thick  spot  —  and 
oh,  so  thick !  and  Charley's  eyes  grew  big  and  o.ack  with  the 
recollection. 

If  Fanny  would  just  run  over  with  him  — 

"  But  my  mother,  and  my  new  apron  !  " 

It  would  take  only  a  minute,  and  I  could  put  my  apron  out 
of  the  way  —  and  oh,  such  a  thick  spot! 


106  MY    OLD   PLAYMATE. 

I  was  not  convinced, 'but  I  liked  Charley  Hill.  Ii  was  a 
delightful  day ;  and  by  the  time  I  had  left  the  path  to  wade 
off  in  the  tall  grass,  I  not  only  forgot  my  mother's  injunctions, 
but  forgot  my  apron  also.  A  rare  frolic  did  Charley  and  I 
have  among  the  dandelions  and  golden-hearted  daisies.  I 
linked  the  white-petalled  blossoms  together,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  rose-coronets,  which  would-be  (or  rather  should-be) 
duchesses  decked  their  foreheads  with  during  the  past  season, 
and  fastened  them  to  his  cap ;  and  Charley  curled  the  green 
stems  of  the  dandelions,  and  hung  them  among  the  natural 
brown,  till  I  might  have  claimed  relationship  with  the  mer 
maids.  Then  we  picked  buttercups  and  held  them  beneath 
each  others'  chin,  till  we  made  the  surprising  discovery  that 
both  loved  butter ;  and  then  we  sought  very  diligently  after 
the  four-leaved  clover,  though  to  be  sure  its  magic  was  quite 
above  our  juvenile  comprehension.  Next  we  picked  a  stem 
of  the  golden  rod,  and  went  in  search  of  concealed  treasures, 
till  finally  we  arrived  at  the  strawberry  knoll.  Charley  had 
told  the  truth ;  it  was  crimsoned  over  with  its  blushing  wealth. 
Up  from  the  shadow  of  every  green  leaf  peeped  the  round, 
luscious  berry,  soft  and  bright  as  the  swell  of  a  pouting  lip ; 
and  Charley  hurra'd,  and  clapped  his  hands,  and  turned  a 
somerset,  before  he  could  set  himself  quietly  about  picking 
them.  Then,  as  I  quite  forgot  my  new  apron,  and,  nestling 
down  in  the  grass,  crushed  more  strawberries  beneath  my 
knee  than  my  fingers  picked,  Charley  told  a  story,  which 
sent  many  a  dew-like  looking  heart-messenger  from  my  cheek 
to  the  tip  of  a  clover-leaf  or  the  bended  point  of  a  grass-blade. 
It  was  of  old  Jake  Gawsely,  who  was  dying  alone  in  the 
brown  house  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  Old  Jake  had  not  a  friend 
in  the  world,  so  Charley  said,  and  to  be  sure  he  did  not  de 
serve  one ;  but  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  lie  there  alone,  with 
nothing  but  his  bad  deeds  to  think  about,  and  nobody  to  pity 
him.  Charley  pitied  him,  and  so  Charley's  playmate  began 
soon  to  pity  the  neglected  miser  too ;  and  we  mutually  hoped 
that  if  we  should  ever  do  wrong  ourselves,  people  would  be 
kind  to  us,  so  •  s  to  "  make  us  good  again."  And  then  we 


MY    OLD    PLAYMATE.  107 

picked  my  apron,  my  unfortunate  new  white  apron,  full  of 
strawberries,  and  carried  them  to  the  little  brown  house ;  and 
we  actually  got  a  tear  for  our  pains.  Poor  old  Jake  Gawsely  ! 
How  much  of  neglect,  of  unkindness,  and  perhaps  of  scorn, 
on  the  part  of  thy  fellows,  there  might  have  been  in  that 
impenetrable  cerement  of  self,  folded  so  closely  around  thy 
world-deadened  heart ! 

Years  went  by,  and  Charley  Hill  was  the  same  careless, 
light-hearted,  good-humored,  mischievous  lad,  though  there 
was  a  touch  of  pathos  about  him,  a  well-spring  of  poetic 
feeling,  and  almost  womanly  sympathy,  which  made  him 
strangely  attractive.  Everybody  loved  Charley,  not  merely 
for  his  hearty  boldness,  (a  quality  which  usually  gains  con 
sideration  for  boys,)  but  for  his  gay  good  humor,  his  mingled 
wit  and  sentiment,  and  his  gracefulness  and  beauty.  Then 
there  was  a  guilelessness,  a  little  less  than  girlish  simplicity 
about  him,  a  credulous  trust  in  everybody's  purity  of  inten 
tion,  and  a  generous  reliance  on  those  who  professed  them 
selves  his  friends,  which,  like  many  other  loveable  traits  of 
character,  seem  to  us  fitter  for  a  resident  of  heaven  than  of 
this  world.  But  for  all  this,  there  was  a  life-like  roguishness 
about  Charley,  which  fully  proved  his  humanity. 

Charley  Hill  and  I  always  stood  side  by  side  at  the  spelling- 
school  ;  for  both  of  us  were  thoroughly  versed  in  Webster's 
spelling-book,  from  "  Baker  "  to  the  last  word  of  "  Ail-to-be- 
troubled —  table."  One  winter,  the  school  from  Crow  Hill 
was  to  engage  in  a  spelling  contest  with  ours  ;  so  our  big 
boys  called  a  meeting,  voting  out  the  "  babies,"  (as  they  con 
temptuously  denominated  a  respectable  class  of  little  people,) 
and  making  other  arrangements  to  secure  a  victory  for  our 
selves.  From  this  time,  great  were  the  preparations  for  the 
reception  of  the  enemy.  Every  evening,  troops  of  little 
urchins  were  marshalled  before  the  schoolmaster's  desk,  and 
drilled  like  a  company  of  militia  on  training-day,  and  with 
about  the  same  result.  There  was  not  authority  enough 
among  us  all  to  preserve  order,  and  so  our  rehearsal  usually 
ended  in  a  snow-balling  party.  At  last  the  important  evening 


108  MY    OLD   PLAYMATE. 

arrived ;  and  anxious  brows  and  throbbing  hearts  found  their 
places  inside  the  village  schoolhouse.  But  one  eye  was 
tearful,  and  there  was  one  pouting  lip ;  for  it  was  a  snowy 
evening,  and  a  careful  mother  had  decided  that  her  child  was 
safest  at  home. 

"  If  the  sleigh  were  here,  she  might  ride,  Charley ;  but  I 
cannot  let  her  walk  so  far." 

Charley's  eye  brightened.  "  Perhaps  I  can  find  a  sleigh  ; 
I  will  ask  Deacon  Palmer." 

Away  went  Charley,  leaving  smiles  behind  him ;  for  who 
ever  knew  Charley  Hill  to  fail  in  an  undertaking  ?  and  it 
would  be  a  pity  if  he  should  begin  with  his  old  play-mate. 
It  was  not  long  before  the  merry  jingle  of  bells  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  sleigh,  and  I  hastened  to  bury  myself  in 
cloak  and  hood,  just  as  Charley's  mischievous  eyes  peeped 
through  the  opening  door. 

"  Quick  Fanny  !  all  ready !  —  whoa  —  whoa  ! " 

I  gave  my  hand  to  Charley  and  was  gracefully  handed  to 
a  seat  —  on  a  hand-sled. 

"  Get  up  !  whoa  Teddy  !  g'  long,"  and  off  started  our  noble 
steeds  —  four  boys  hung  with  sleigh-bells,  and  frisky  as  young 
colts  —  while  Charley  gravely  followed  in  the  capacity  of 
footman.  Charley  Hill's  hand-sled  never  lost  the  title  of 
"  the  deacon's  sleigh,"  while  a  runner  lasted. 

Pity  that  we  cannot  always  be  children.  It  is  a  very  un 
comfortable  thing  to  be  dignified  and  proper;  and  I  would 
advise  every  child  to  put  a  stone  on  his  head  to  keep  him  from 
growing ;  if,  by  so  doing  he  may  prevent  the  stone  from  fall 
ing  on  his  heart.  Charley  and  I  outlived  our  childhood,  and 
so,  in  a  very  slight  degree,  our  naturalness.  My  old  playmate 
became  a  tall,  graceful  stripling,  with  very  glossy  hair  and 
very  bright  eyes ;  and  I  did  not  dare  show  my  liking  for  him 
as  when  we  used  to  hide  ourselves  among  the  alders,  lest  the 
other  children  should  discover  us,  and  interrupt  our  tete-a-tete 
amusements.  And  now  Charley  did  not  always  walk  beside 
me  from  our  little  village  parties,  nor  ever  give  up  an  amuse 
ment  because  I  was  not  engaged  in  it,  nor  share  with  me  his 


MY    OLD   PLAYMATE.  109 

little  secrets  —  his  plans  for  innocent  mischief,  and  his  likes 
and  dislikes  —  as  before.  Yet  we  were  very  warm  friends  ; 
and  often  talked  of  our  play-days,  and  wondered  for  the  sake 
of  aping  our  elders  if  we  should  ever  be  so  happy  again ; 
when  at  that  very  moment  our  hearts  were  brimming  over 
with  happiness.  It  is  strange  that  we  so  seldom  appreciate 
the  present  —  that  we  never  do  until  the  thorn  is  in  it.  Bliss 
is  so  much  a  thing  of  eternity  that  it  has  no  way-marks,  noth 
ing  by  which  to  measure  the  hours  embalmed  in  it;  but 
sorrow  is  the  child  of  Time,  and  holds  in  her  hand  a  dial 
marking  to  our  weary  eye  the  infinitesimal  particles  of  which 
moments  are  made.  Charley  was  a  favorite  with  everybody 
—  he  was  so  gay,  and  so  generous,  and  so  companionable. 
A  little  too  companionable,  thought  an  ambitious  parent,  who, 
proud  of  his  son's  rare  talents,  was  bent  on  cultivating  them 
to  the  utmost.  I  must  not  be  thought  guilty  of  undue  par 
tiality  to  my  old  play-mate  when  I  say  that  Charley  was 
really,  notwithstanding  his  social  qualities,  a  close  student. 
Everybody  said  it  but  his  exacting  parent.  He  was  not  satis 
fied,  however,  and  at  last  resolved  on  sending  his  gifted  idol 

where  he  hoped  he  might  be  perfected ;  to  Judge ,  an 

experienced  lawyer  and  an  old  friend,  in  the  metropolis.  At 
first  we  missed  Charley  Hill  very  much ;  for  a  village  society 
never  can  afford  to  lose  one  from  its  numbers,  particularly  if 
that  one  chance  to  be  "  the  star  of  the  goodlie  companie." 
But  at  length  we  learned  to  dispense  with  his  hilarous  laugh, 
and  song,  half  mirth,  half  pathos,  his  graceful  sayings  and 
witty  repartees  ;  and  though  Charley  was  far  from  being  for 
gotten,  we  found  it  possible  to  have  a  social  gathering  without 
him. 

I  had  been  three  whole  months,  three  long,  tedious  months, 
away  from  home ;  and  I  was  wild  with  joy  on  my  return. 
The  pigs,  the  ducks,  the  chickens,  the  flowers,  and  trees  were 
all  called  upon  to  share  in  my  exultation ;  and  it  required  all 
the  tongues  the  house  afforded  to  answer  my  incessant,  out 
pouring  of  questions. 
10 


110  MY    OLD    PLAYMATE. 

"  When  was  Ada  Palmer  here  last?"  and  "  Has  little  Susy 
May  grown  any  ? "  and  "  Oh !  has  Charley  Hill  got  home  ? " 

To  the  last  my  mother  gave  a  quiet  yes.  And  was  he  as 
handsome  as  ever,  and  as  agreeable,  and  as  good  ? 

She  half  shook  her  head,  and  sighed  ominously. 

"Is  Charley  sick?" 

"  No,  quite  well." 

"  And  has  n't  he  come  home  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  What  is  the  matter  then  ?  " 

"  Look !  yonder  is  Ada  Palmer  just  coming  down  the 
slope;"  and  away  I  flew  to  meet  her. 

We  kept  open  doors  that  evening,  and  everybody  seemed 
to  know  it  —  everybody  but  Charley  Hill.  He  did  not  come  ; 
and  I  went  to  sleep  wondering  what  change  had  come  over 
my  old  play-mate.  The  next  day  I  met  him  accidentally  in 
the  street ;  and  I  noted  a  pleased  sparkle  in  his  eye,  and  a 
flush  on  his  cheek ;  but  he  extended  his  hand  half  hesitat 
ingly,  and  there  was  a  painful  confusion  in  his  manner  which 
puzzled  me.  Why  should  the  frank,  noble-hearted  Charley 
Hill  blush  and  cast  down  his  eyes,  as  though  detected  in  a 
crime,  at  sight  of  an  old  friend  ?  The  next  evening,  I  was 
invited  to  a  social  gathering  at  Deacon  Palmer's.  Charley 
Hill  was  not  there,  and  I  inquired  the  wherefore. 

"  Is  it  possible,  Fanny !  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"Know  what?" 

"  Why,  nobody  invites  Charley  now." 

"Why?" 

Ada  shook  her  head,  and  compressed  her  lips  with  an  ex 
pression  of  intense  severity. 

"Why,  Ada?" 

"  For  the  best  of  reasons,  poor  miserable  fellow  that  he  is  ! 
He  is  not  fit  to  associate  with  respectable  people." 

"  Tell  me  —  has  Charley  done  anything !  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

"  Matter  enough  to  break  his  poor  father's  heart,  and  ma^e 


MY    OLD   PLAYMATE.  Ill 

all  the  rest  of  the  family  miserable.  He  is  shockingly  dissi 
pated." 

It  was  the  bursting  of  a  thunderbolt.     Poor  Charley  Hill ! 

That  night  I  collected  together,  in  one  dream,  all  the  fright 
ful  stories  I  had  ever  heard  of  vice,  and  degradation,  and 
misery ;  and  strewed  them  along  narrow,  filthy  streets,  where 
Charley  Hill  walked,  as  though  quite  at  home.  At  last  there 
was  a  blow  given,  a  shriek,  a  stream  of  blood,  a  dead,  heavy 
corse  ;  and,  all  trembling  with  horror,  I  awoke.  How  thank 
ful  was  I  that  my  old  playmate  was  not  a  murderer ;  and 
how  I  lay  and  arranged  plan  after  plan  for  his  redemption, 
plan  after  plan  which  shrivelled  to  a  cobweb  as  soon  as 
woven ! 

When  morning  came,  I  made  inquiries  and  learned  moro 
of  Charley  Hill.  His  singular  powers  of  fascination  had  led 
him  into  temptation  to  which  the  less  gifted  are  seldom  ex 
posed.  He  was  full  of  wit  and  vivacity ;  his  natural  gaiety  and 
good  humor  were  unbounded ;  and  he  was  self-confident  and 
unsuspecting.  It  was  a  long  time  before  Charley  Hill  became 
at  all  aware  that  he  was  wasting  himself ;  and  then  he  qui 
eted  his  conscience  with  the  thought,  "  It  is  necessary  now  ; 
when  once  I  am  home  again  all  will  be  well."  So  he  went 
on  till  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  saving  himself; 
and  just  at  this  critical  time,  perhaps  not  more  than  a  fort 
night  too  late,  Judge first  began  to  take  note  of  the 

derelictions  of  his  young  charge.  In  the  mean  time  a  few 
reports  had  reached  Alderbrook,  and  alarmed  Squire  Hill. 
He  proceeded  to  the  metropolis,  received  the  whole  weight  of 
his  friend's  newly  acquired  knowledge,  (much  of  it  of  course 
exaggerated,)  before  seeing  his  son,  showered  upon  the  culprit 
a  torrent  of  expostulations,  which  the  goadings  of  disappoint 
ment  made  very  angry  ones ;  and  finally  concluded  to  remove 
him  at  once  from  his  companions  to  the  quiet  of  Alderbrook, 
The  last  was  the  only  wise  thing  done.  Here  Charley  Hill 
might  have  been  saved  if  but  his  own  plan  for  "  doing  people 
good  "  had  been  carried  out.  His  father  was  very  angry,  and 
used  much  severity ;  his  mother  and  sister  received  him  with 


112 


MY    OLD   PLAYMATE. 


tears  and  chidings.  The  last  would  have  won  his  heart,  but 
the  regret  it  occasioned  was  accompanied  by  a  strong  sense 
of  degradation,  which  made  him  anxious  to  escape  their  pres 
ence.  Their  treatment  of  him  was  full  of  tenderness,  but  it 
was  a  kind  of  tenderness  which  showered  humiliation  on  its 
object,  and  should  not  have  been  continued  more  than  one  day, 
If  but  one  person  had  shown  a  cheerful  confidence  in  him  he 
might  have  been  encouraged  and  strengthened.  But  his  old 
friends  stood  aloof.  True,  they  sometimes  greeted  him  kindly , 
but  there  was  something  even  in  that  very  kindness  which 
made  him  feel  their  knowledge  of  the  taint  that  was  on  him. 
Is  it  strange,  that,  without  sympathy,  without  companionship 
with  the  good,  his  pride  daily  wounded,  and  his  self-respect 
daily  diminishing,  Charley  Hill  should  become  recidess  of  con 
sequences,  and  indulge  his  socialness  at  the  expense  of  higher 
qualities  ?  Certainly  my  old  playmate  was  made  no  better 
by  being  removed  to  Alderbrook.  The  vicious  are  every 
where,  and  Charley  in  his  loneliness  turned  to  them.  This 
was  the  climax  of  his  evil  doing.  He  had  been  driven  to  it, 
true,  but  he  should  not  have  yielded  to  the  force  which  even 
the  good  had  turned  against  him.  If  he  had  stood  firm  for  a 
couple  of  years,  not  merely  unsupported,  but  against  the  over 
powering  weight  of  neglect  which  was  thrown  into  the  balance 
on  the  side  of  wrong  —  if  he  had  borne  well  the  severest  of 
all  severe  trials  for  a  sensitive  nature,  his  first  failure  might 
have  been  forgiven  and  he  restored  to  his  former  position 
among  us.  There  are,  doubtless,  men  who  might  have  done 
it ;  but  alas,  how  few  !  Charley  Hill  struggled  a  little  ;  but, 
when  he  reached  up  his  hand  from  the  gulf  into  which  he 
was  falling,  there  was  no  one  to  take  it.  Therfe  were  enough 
that  thought  themselves  ready  to  help  him ;  but  they  forgot 
that  he  was  a  brother,  and  poor  Charley  remembered  the  past 
and  turned  from  them. 

"  It  is  a  somewhat  questionable  experiment ;  and  your  plan 
you  will  find  very  difficult  of  execution."  So  spake  a  careful 
mother,  evincing  a  sensitive  regard  for  the  welfare  of  her 
own  child ;  the  only  thing  that  could  blind  an  eye  usually  so 


M5T    OLD   PLAYB1ATE.  ]  13 

discriminating,  or  momentarily  steel  a  heart  so  full  of  charity. 
"  You  are  but  a  young  girl,  my  Fanny." 

"  I  will  talk  only  with  young  girls,  then ;  but  Charley  and 
I  were  old  friends,  and  he  has  a  right  to  expect  kindness  of 
me." 

"  Not  a  right,  my  child  ;  he  has  forfeited  that." 

I  had  some  confused,  indistinct  notions  of  the  peculiar 
rights  of  the  erring,  the  consideration  and  attention  which  we 
owe  each  other  on  a  sea  so  full  of  breakers,  but  I  did  not 
venture  on  advancing  them,  lest  I  should  injure  the  cause  of 
Charley  Hill  by  opinions  heterodox. 

Days  went  by,  and  my  old  playmate  had  become  a  very 
frequent  visiter  at  Underbill.  He  was  received  at  Deacon 
Palmer's,  also,  and  at  several  other  houses  in  the  village ; 
and  the  effect  was  soon  visible  in  his  altered  appearance. 
But  all  this  was  not  done  without  opposition ;  and  there  were 
people  in  the  village  —  good  people  —  that  had  done  much  to 
reform  the  vicious,  and  were  ready  to  do  more  —  who  bitterly 
denounced  the  course  we  were  pursuing.  It  was  not  in 
accordance  with  their  own  plan.  Charley  Hill  should  have 
been  obliged  to  give  a  pledge  of  reformation,  and  stand  a 
trial ;  it  was  too  much  to  receive  him  on  trust.  The  most 
critical  position  which  a  man  can  occupy  in  this  world,  the 
most  dangerous,  is  when  he  stands  balancing  on  the  barrier 
between  vice  and  virtue.  Vice  wooes,  and  virtue  frowns. 
The  bad  beckon,  and  smile,  and  promise ;  while  the  good, 
who  should  have  all  the  smiles  and  be  able  to  present  all  the 
attractions  that  cluster  so  profusely  around  a  life  of  purity, 
speak  their  warnings  with  severity,  stand  aloof,  as  though 
afraid  of  contamination,  and  scarce  encourage  a  return.  Not 
that  men  are  so  unforgiving  to  the  erring.  The  sympathy 
for  the  self-degraded  which  has  sprung  up  everywhere,  proves 
that  they  are  not.  But  it  is  a  fashion  of  the  day  to  encourage 
extremes.  The  lady  who  will  take  a  drunkard  from  the  gut 
ter,  and  clothe  and  feed  him,  will  severely  censure  her  sister 
philanthropist  for  using  a  more  delicate  and  less  apparent 
influence  to  keep  the  thoughtless  young  wine-drinker  from 
10* 


114  MY    OLD    PLAYMATE. 

falling  into  it.  It  matters  but  little  whether  smiles  or  tears 
are  employed,  if  the  good  be  accomplished.  We  tried  smiles 
with  Charley  Hill.  We  scattered  roses  in  his  path,  and  won 
him  many  a  step  back,  and  tried  to  keep  him  there,  but  — 

As  I  have  before  intimated,  many  good  people  felt  outraged 
that  Charley  Hill  should  be  treated  as  though  he  had  never 
erred,  and  be  received  in  some  families  at  Alderbrook  as  for 
merly.  He  should  be  punished ;  he  deserved  a  lesson  ;  he 
ought  to  be  taught  that  he  could  not  sin  without  paying  the 
penalty.  There  was  plausibility  in  much  that  they  said,  else, 
alas !  their  reasonings  would  have  had  less  weight  with  us. 
They  contended  that  if  society  really  had  the  power  of  re 
forming  him,  it  was  not  such  society.  They  intimated  even 
that  parents  were  exposing  their  children  to  contamination 
by  this  course.  We  were  too  young,  they  said,  to  do  good 
to  our  playmate.  Too  young !  Could  those  who  were  older 
understand  the  case  so  well  as  we ;  we  who  held  the  key  to 
Charley  Hill's  nature,  and  were  almost  as  familiar  with  every 
nook  and  cranny  within  his  heart  as  our  own  ?  Poor  Char 
ley  !  we  could  have  saved  him;  but  "public  opinion"  was 
against  us,  and  —  we  failed. 

Door  after  door  was  shut  against  Charley  Hill ;  door  after 
door,  till,  alone  again  in  the  world,  he  turned  from  the  happy 
firesides  which  had  for  a  while  stayed  him  in  his  course,  and 
plunged  headlong  into  the  yawning  vortex  of  dissipation. 
Before,  he  had  stepped  cautiously  and  hesitatingly ;  he  had 
paused  and  looked  behind  him.  and  dallied  with  the  flowers 
which  grew  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  But  now  he  gave 
one  desperate  leap,  and  was  gone  forever.  As  Charley  Hill's 
was  not  a  gradual  wandering  away  from  the  path  of  right, 
but  a  sudden  mad  plunge,  so  was  his  course  short  and  his 
end  tragic.  But  we  will  leave  him  to  his  rest  on  the  spot 
where  he  once  sat,  beneath  the  elm  tree  close  in  the  corner 
of  the  churchyard,  to  watch  the  burial  of  old  Jake  Gawsely. 
He  dropped  a  tear  there  ;  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  friendless  old 
man,  who  was  hustled  into  his  grave  by  the  hands  of  those 
he  had  injured.  Perhaps  some  watchful  angel  may  have 


MY    OLD    PLAYMATE.  115 

caught  that  tear,  and  borne  it  up  before  him  to  the  throne  of 
lfoe~£lernal ;  and  the  gentle  tribute  may  ere  this  have  been 
laid  back  on  his  own  earth-defiled  spirit,  to  freshen  and  to 
purify  it.  A  dark,  dark  fate  was  thine,  poor  Charley !  woven 
by  thine  own  fingers,  true,  but  lacking  the  white  and  golden 
threads  which  those  who  once  loved  thee  might  have  added ; 
a  dark,  dark  fate,  which  my  pen  refuses  to  record  or  my 
thoughts  to  dwell  upon.  Many  virtues  were  thine,  my  old 
playmate ;  there  was  much  in  thee  to  love,  much  to  pity, 
much  to  censure ;  God  forgive  thee !  God  forgive  the  mis 
taken  philanthropists  of  Alderbrook ! 


116 


OUR  MAY. 

"  OUR  MAY,"  as  everybody  called  May  Loomis,  was  the 
merriest,  blithesomest,  busiest  little  creature  that  you  ever  saw 
—  a  perfect  honey-gatherer  without  the  sting — an  April  smile, 
with  a  cousin's  face  for  the  contrasting  cloud.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  bring  a  shade  of  seriousness  over  that  joyous 
face  ;  for  although  I  have  seen  tears  starting  from  her  eyes, 
they  were  always  checked  by  a  smile,  or  if  suffered  to  fall 
upon  her  face,  they  were  lost  in  a  profusion  of  roguish  dim 
ples. 

Our  May  had  a  cousin,  the  cloud  above  mentioned,  who 
rejoiced  in  the  same  appellation;  but  although  everybody 
said  that  Miss  May  Loomis  was  a  very  excellent  young  lady, 
no  one  ever  thought  of  placing  the  possessive  before  her  name. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  think  Miss  May  would  have  liked  such  a 
partnership  concern,  for  she  had  a  high  opinion  of  her  own 
dignity,  and  she  thought  it  must  be  very  painful  to  any 
woman  of  delicacy  to  be  hailed  by  all  she  met  as  though 
under  their  especial  protection.  The  good-natured  laugh  of 
the  old  farmers  shocked  her  nerves,  and  the  cordial  grasp  of 
their  horny  hands  was  quite  too  much  for  lady-endurance. 
Miss  May  was  very  often  annoyed,  when  walking  with  her 
cousin,  by  the  exclamation,  "  There  goes  our  May  !"  from 
the  lips  of  some  poor  washerwoman,  or  errand-boy ;  and  then 
to  see  them  fly  across  the  street,  as  though  on  terms  of  the 
greatest  intimacy  !  Why,  it  was  preposterous.  So  presum 
ing  !  But  Miss  May  was  still  more  annoyed  by  the  exces 
sive  vulgarity  of  her  thoughtless  little  cousin,*  who  would 
often  stop  in  the  street  to  inquire  after  the  health  and  pros 
perity  of  the  offenders,  and  send  some  little  message  to  the 
children  at  home.  On  such  occasions  the  Cloud  usually 
drew  herself  up  to  her  utmost  height,  and  to  avoid  the  dis- 


OUR    MAY.  117 

grace  of  such  improper  conduct,  walked  home  alone,  in  the 
most  dignified  manner.  But  then  Miss  May's  walk  was 
always  dignified,  if  walking  by  rule  and  compass  constitutes 
dignity  ;  and  she  was  never  known  to  do  an  improper  thing 
in  her  life.  She  always  carried  her  hands  in  one  particular 
position,  except  when,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  she  changed 
them  to  one  other  particular  position ;  and  her  pocket-hand 
kerchief,  which  she  held  between  the  thumb  and  finger  of 
the  left  hand,  was  allowed  to  spread  itself  over  the  three 
remaining  fingers  in  a  very  becoming  manner.  Her  neck 
ribbon  was  always  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  the  two  ends  of 
precisely  the  same  length;  and  her  collar  never  had  in  it  a 
wrinkle.  There  were  two  or  three  plaits  in  the  waist  of  her 
dress,  because  somebody,  that  she  considered  undisputable 
authority,  had  said  that  plaits  were  graceful ;  but  she  care 
fully  eschewed  all  extravagance,  in  the  quantity,  if  not  the 
quality,  of  the  cloth  she  honored  by  wearing.  Her  hair 
(this  was  the  climax  of  the  young  lady's  nicety)  was  so  care 
fully  brushed  and  pomatumed,  that  it  seemed  one  glossy  con 
vex  surface,  surmounted  by  a  braid  of — no  one  could  have 
imagined  what,  but  for  the  pale  blue  ribband  that  relieved 
the  brown,  and  gave  the  curious  examiner  the  idea  that  it 
might  be  of  the  same  material  as  the  head  covering. 

Miss  May's  nicety  extended  to  everything  about  her. 
Her  house-plants  were  prim  and  perpendicular,  trimmed  of 
every  redundant  leaf;  and  she  was  often  heard  to  lament  an 
opening  blossom,  becauss  it  would  produce  irregularity,  by 
throwing  the  balance  of  ornament  on  one  side  of  the  plant. 
The  Cloud  was  fond  of  exercising  her  skill  in  trimming  trees 
in  the  shape  of  cones  and  other  figures,  while  her  cousin  fos 
tered  luxuriance  in  their  growth,  and  would  rather  hang  on 
them  a  wilder  wreath,  or  twist  a  limb  awry,  than  to  see  the 
ornaments  of  her  uncle's  garden  standing  out  stark  and  stiff, 
like  the  spokes  of  a  wagon  wheel.  Yet  the  cousins  never 
clashed ;  for  the  regularity  of  Miss  May  extended  to  her  dis 
position  and  heart ;  and,  having  her  own  excellent  rule  of 
rectitude,  she  would  as  soon  have  been  caught  laughing 


118  OUR    MAY. 

aloud,  or  romping  in  the  court  yard,  or  wearing  a  rumpled 
dress,  as  swerving  from  it  in  the  least  degree.  On  the  other 
hand,  our  May  was  too  careless  and  too  light-hearted  to  be 
annoyed  by  her  nice  cousin's  trifling  peculiarities ;  and  she 
never  opposed  her  tastes,  nor  interrupted  her  in  anything 
except  a  lecture  on  propriety.  Miss  May  never  spoke  but  in 
the  gentlest  voice,  and  the  most  unexceptionable  words  ;  but 
then  she  often  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to  admonish  her  wild 
cousin  of  the  folly  of  her  doings,  which  admonitions  our 
active  little  Hebe  found  peculiarly  irksome.  She,  however, 
soon  invented  a  way  of  warding  ofF  these  avalanches  of  good 
advice,  quite  worthy  of  her  wit.  When  Miss  May  would 
enter  the  parlor  with  a  grave  look  of  reproof,  and  commence 
with  the  ominous  words,  "  My  dear  cousin,  I  feel  it  my  duty 
to  expostulate — "  the  offender  would  interrupt  her. 

"  Oh,  wait  a  minute,  May,  deary,  I  have  something  to  tell 

you.     Mr.  Melroy " 

This  sentence  was  sometimes  finished  in  one  way,  and 
sometimes  in  another ;  but  Mr.  Melroy  was  the  magic  word  ; 
and  after  making  her  fair  moni tress  blush  crimson,  the  little 
tormenter  would  glide  out  of  the  room  and  express  her  self- 
gratulation  by  a  laugh  as  long  and  loud  as  it  was  musical. 

Mr.  Melroy  was  our  village  clergyman  ;  a  young  bachelor 
of  twenty-eight,  and  a  general  favorite  with  all  classes  of 
men.  He  was  friendly  and  courteous  with  all,  for  he  looked 
upon  the  whole  human  family  as  his  kindred ;  and  his  heart 
never  refused  to  the  meanest  beggar,  the  appellation  of 
brother.  His  voice  was  full  and  melodious,  but  somewhat 
solemn ;  his  countenance  exhibited  a  dash  of  melancholy, 
though  so  modified  by  Christian  benevolence  as  to  be  pecu 
liarly  interesting ;  and  his  manner  was  correct  and  gentle 
manly.  The  two  cousins  were  members  of  Mr.  Melroy 's 
church;  and  their  uncle,  'Squire  Loomis,  was  his  personal 
friend ;  so  it  was  not  at  all  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  became 
their  frequent  visiter.  Neither  is  it  a  matter  of  wonder  that 
our  May,  light-hearted,  smiling,  blithesome  May,  contrasted 
as  she  was  with  her  grave  companion,  should  almost  escape 


OUR  MAY.  119 

the  young  pastor's  notice.  Our  May  saw  that  Mr.  Melroy's 
attention  was  all  directed  to  the  Cloud ;  but  she  was  not  sorry, 
for  it  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  watch  his  fine  eyes,  as  they 
lighted  up  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  subject,  and  to  catch 
the  variety  of  expression  which  genius  can  throw  upon  the 
most  serious  face.  Our  May  liked  merriment,  but  she  liked 
Mr.  Melroy  better ;  and  she  never  ventured  to  breathe  a  word 
until  she  was  sure  he  had  quite  finished.  Then  she  would 
make  some  remark,  so  comical,  that  Mr.  Melroy  would  be 
obliged  to  waste  a  smile  upon  her  in  spite  of  himself;  and 
Miss  May  would  quite  forget  the  half  hour's  profitable  con 
versation  in  planning  a  reproof. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Melroy  would  walk  with  the  young  ladies, 
or  rather,  with  the  Cloud,  for  our  May  was  constantly  bound 
ing  from  the  path  to  pluck  a  flower  or  chase  a  butterfly.  And 
yet  she  somehow  never  lost  any  part  of  the  young  clergyman's 
profitable  conversation,  for  when  they  were  alone  she  would 
tease  her  sedate  cousin  by  distorting  his  beautiful  sentiments 
and  sadly  misapplying  his  comparisons  ;  and  then  she  would 
steal  away  to  poor  blind  Becky  and  glad  her  pious  heart  by  a 
repetition  of  his  pure  teachings.  Our  May  was  certainly  not 
without  faults ;  but  her  young  heart  was  a  living,  feeling, 
acting  thing ;  and  she  had  happily  given  it  all,  even  its  vola 
tility,  to  the  guidance  of  a  safe  Hand. 

Both  of  the  cousins  had  a  class  in  the  village  Sabbath 
school,  and  Miss  May  was  the  secretary  of  two  or  three  be 
nevolent  societies,  of  which  our  May  was  only  a  quiet,  unob 
trusive  member.  Some  people  wondered  that  the  relative, 
and  constant  companion  of  such  a  pattern-lady  as  Miss  May 
Loomis,  should  choose  such  a  questionable  way  of  exhibiting 
her  charity,  as  to  visit  the  poor  in  person,  and  administer  to 
their  wants,  even  when  it  called  her  away  from  the  meetings 
of  the  society  ;  but  others  fearlessly  advocated  their  favorite's 
cause ;  while  the  sober-faced  young  clergyman  said  nothing. 
Before  old  Mr.  Thompson  left,  Miss  May  used  to  tell  the 
delinquent  that  she  knew  Mr.  Thompson  disapproved  of  such 
conduct ;  but  she  dared  not  mention  Mr.  Meiroy's  name,  as  it 


120 


OUR  MAY. 


was  a  signal  which  our  May  failed  not  to  answer  with  an 
exceeding  gay  volley.  The  truth  was,  everybody  said  that 
Mr.  Melroy  did  not  call  so  often  at  'Squire  Loomis'  for  noth 
ing  ;  and  as  Miss  May  was  very  far  from  being  nothing,  she 
was  very  naturally  concluded  to  be  the  something  that  so 
attracted.  When  anybody  asked  home  questions  about  this 
matter,  our  May  laughed,  and  looked  very  knowing,  while 
her  cousin  blushed,  and  looked  very  dignified.  Thus  matters 
went  on  for  a  long  time,  and  thus  they  might  have  gone  on, 
in  spite  of  several  old  ladies,  who  endeavored  to  introduce 
variety  by  prophesying  it,  but  for  an  occurrence  in  which  our 
May  most  sadly  overstepped  the  bounds  of  propriety. 

It  was  on  a  fine  afternoon,  in  the  beginning  of  August,  that 
the  young  pastor  was  seen  leading  the  fair  cousins  beyond  the 
little  clump  of  houses  which  we  dignified  by  the  title  of  vil 
lage.  Miss  May's  step  was  as  precise  as  ever ;  but  our  bright 
lady  of  the  possessive  pronoun,  walked  more  as  though  she 
thought  she  could  guide  herself,  and  was  seeking  an  oppor 
tunity  to  drop  the  gentleman's  arm.  Their  walk  was  as 
usual,  delightful  to  all ;  for  Miss  May  was  treated  with  the 
most  scrupulous  attention  —  Mr.  Melroy  found  the  air  refresh 
ing  and  the  scenery  beautiful,  to  say  nothing  of  the  valued 
society  of  the  Cloud,  and  our  May  was  always  pleased.  On 
this  day  she  was  even  more  frolicsome  than  usual ;  and,  hav 
ing  accidentally  broken  a  wreath  of  frail,  beautiful'  flowers, 
which  she  had  been  weaving,  Mr.  Melroy  so  far  unbent  him 
self  as  to  say  he  wished  she  had  never  linked  a  more  enduring 
chain. 

"  What  can  he  mean  ? "  thought  laughing  May ;  bat  at 
that  moment  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a  field  of  haymak 
ers,  among  whom  she  recognized  familiar  faces.  The  recog 
nition  was  mutual ;  for  instantly  a  young  man  called  out 
"  There  's  our  May  ! "  and  the  giddy  girl,  turning  about  with 
an  arch  smile,  and  shaking  her  finger  at  her  companions, 
sprang  lightly  over  the  fence,  and  was  soon  in  the  midst  of 
the  haymakers.  The  young  man,  who  at  first  recognized  her, 
seized  one  of  her  hands,  while  a  woman  in  a  blue  frock  and 


OUR  MAY.  121 

calico  bonnet  appropriated  the  other;  and  the  whole  party, 
men,  women  and  children,  gathered  around  the  pretty  hoyden, 
with  a  familiarity,  which  to  Miss  May  was  perfectly  astound 
ing.  Our  May  stood  but  a  moment  in  the  centre  of  the 
group,  when  a  dozen  voices,  pitched  on  every  imaginable  key, 
roared  forth  a  boisterous  laugh,  not,  however,  quite  drowning 
her  own  clear,  ringing  tones  ;  and  then,  with  a  sort  of  mock 
courtesy,  she  was  bounding  away,  when  the  young  man  again 
stopped  her.  Our  May  paused  a  moment  as  though  unde 
cided,  while  the  young  man  stood  before  her,  and  by  his 
earnest  gestures  seemed  urging  some  affair  of  importance. 
Then  a  little  girl  was  seen  to  leave  the  circle,  and  run  until 
she  came  within  hearing  of  the  waiting  couple,  when  she 
called  out  — 

"Our  May  —  Miss  Loomis,  I  mean — says  if  you  will 
excuse  her,  she  will  walk  home  alone,  as  she  is  n't  quite  ready 
now." 

Mr.  Melroy  looked  at  Miss  May,  and  Miss  May  looked  at 
Mr.  Melroy,  and  then  both  looked  at  the  offending  cousin. 
She  had  gone  a  little  aside  from  the  haymakers,  and  was 
talking  with  the  young  man,  and  from  their  manner,  it  was 
evident  that  the  conversation  was  intended  for  no  other  ear. 

"  We  ought  not  to  leave  her,"  said  Mr.  Melroy. 

"  We  ought  to  leave  her,"  said  Miss  May,  in  a  decided 
tone,  and  the  gentleman  complied. 

It  would  be  labor  lost  to  follow  home  the  astounded  couple, 
as,  for  some  reason,  neither  spoke  until  they  entered  Mr. 
Loomis'  parlor ;  nor  even  then,  for  Miss  May  betook  herself  to 
her  embroidery,  and  Mr.  Melroy  to  the  newspaper. 

If  our  sober  readers  have  not  already  shut  the  book,  we 
would  like  to  have  them  follow  our  May,  our  darling,  bright, 
frolicsome,  generous-hearted  May  ;  and  learn  the  whole  truth 
before  they  condemn  her. 

Joshua  Miller,  the  owner  of  the  hay-field,  was  a  plain  old 

farmer,  that  May  had  often  seen  in  her  uncle's  store,  and  for 

whom,  indeed,  'Squire  Loomis  entertained  a  very  great  respect. 

In  leaving  the  store  one  day,  he  accidentally  dropped  his  staff, 

11 


122 


OUR  MAY. 


and  our  May,  with  the  lightness  of  a  sylph,  sprang  before 
him,  picked  it  up,  and  respectfully,  yet  with  one  of  her  most 
sparkling  glances  and  winning  smiles,  placed  it  in  the  old 
man's  hand.  Nothing  can  be  more  nattering  to  age  than 
unexpected  attention  paid  them  by  the  young  and  happy ;  and 
father  Miller  never  forgot  the  pretty,  bright-faced  girl,  who 
"  did  not  laugh  at  him  because  he  was  lame."  When  he 
came  to  the  store  afterwards,  he  always  brought  some  fragrant 
delicious  offering  from  the  garden  or  the  fields  —  fruits  and 
flowers  of  his  own  gathering,  and  finally  our  May  found  it 
very  pleasant  to  extend  her  walks  to  father  Miller's  farm 
house,  drink  of  the  new  milk,  admire  the  cheese,  talk  of 
economy  with  the  old  man's  children,  and  engage  in  a  frolic 
with  his  grand-children.  Her  condescension  pleased  the  good 
people,  while  her  mingled  mirthfulness,  sweetness  and  good 
sense  charmed  them. 

These  were  the  haymakers  she  had  seemed  so  happy  to 
meet ;  and  the  young  man  who  had  urged  her  stay  was  Mr. 
Day,  father  Miller's  son-in-law.  But  this  was  not  an  invita 
tion  to  the  farm-house.  A  family  of  Irish  laborers  had,  with 
in  a  few  days,  begged  to  be  admitted  into  an  old  log  building 
that  stood  on  father  Miller's  farm,  and  the  good  old  man, 
thinking  that  he  might  assist  them  by  giving  them  employ 
ment,  had  readily  consented.  But  the  O'Neils  had  travelled 
a  long,  weary  way,  and  been  obliged  sometimes  to  sleep  upon 
the  damp  ground ;  so  that  they  were  scarcely  settled  before 
the  mother  and  two  of  the  children  were  seized  with  a  vio 
lent  fever.  Mr.  Day  was  anxious  that  our  May  should  just 
look  in  upon  the  sufferers ;  and  she,  with  that  excessive 
sensitiveness  which  often  accompanies  true  benevolence,  chose 
rather  to  incur  censure  for  foolish  waywardness  than  to  ex 
plain  her  conduct.  It  is  often  found  that  those  who  seem  to 
possess  the  lightest  and  gayest  hearts,  have  the  warmest  love 
nestling  down  among  the  flowers.  These  beautiful  charac 
ters  pass  through  the  world  unostentatiously,  seldom  recognized 
but  by  the  eye  of  Omniscience,  loved  by  the  angels,  and 
sometimes  making  themselves  dear  to  some  holy -hearted  saint 


OUR  MAY.  123 

near  enough  to  heaven  to  see  clearly  the  internal  loveliness 
of  the  spirit. ' 

Our  May  had  still  another  motive  for  silence.  She  knew 
that  if  her  cousin  became  aware  of  the  situation  of  the  fami 
ly,  she  would  call  a  meeting  of  the  society,  and  the  subject 
would  be  debated  till  assistance  would  come  too  late  ;  and  she 
thought  that  advice  and  sympathy,  with  the  products  of  father 
Miller's  farm,  and  the  physician  whom  the  contents  of  her 
own  purse  might  place  at  her  command,  would  be  quite  as 
useful  to  the  O 'Neils  as  the  Society's  money.  And  then 
another  feeling  (it  could  scarce  be  called  a  motive)  influenced 
our  May,  when  she  so  unceremoniously  sent  home  her  com 
panions  wondering  at  her  eccentricity.  Mr.  Melroy  had 
always  seemed  to  consider  her  a  thoughtless,  giddy  child ; 
and  when  any  benevolent  plan  was  broached,  he  invariably 
turned  to  her  cousin,  as  though  he  never  dreamed  of  consult 
ing  her,  or  supposed  it  possible  that  she  could  be  interested ; 
and  she  felt  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  concealing  from  him  that 
"  lower  depth,"  where  dwelt  the  sacred  qualities  which  too 
often  but  bubble  on  the  surface.  In  saying  that  our  May 
was  influenced  by  these  considerations,  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  she  thought  them  over,  or  that  she  would  have  been  able 
to  present  them  intelligibly ;  she  acted  from  a  momentary 
impulse,  but  the  impelling  principle  was  unconsciously  made 
up  of  these  motives. 

"  No,"  thought  the  sunny-hearted  May,  as  she  went  trip 
ping  lightly  homeward,  after  seeing  the  O'Neils  compara 
tively  comfortable,  "  No ;  however  lightly  he  may  esteem  me, 
he  shall  never  think  that  I  parade  my  goodness  before  his  eyes 
for  the  sake  of  attracting  his  admiration."  Then  our  pretty 
May  began  to  wonder  what  the  sober  Mr.  Melroy  meant  about 
her  "  linking  a  stronger  chain ;"  and  she  wondered  on  so 
absorbingly  that  she  insensibly  slackened  her  pace  and  almost 
forgot  to  enter  when  she  reached  her  uncle's  door. 

The  young  clergyman  was  still  in  the  parlor ;  and  although 
Miss  May  commenced  the  usual  "  My  dear  cousin,  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  expostulate — "  and  although  the  expostulation 


124  OUR  MAY. 

was  no  pleasanter  than  ever  to  our  May,  she  did  not  avail  her 
self  of  the  usual  "Mr.  Melroy — "  but  sat  dumb,  with  a 
roguishly  demure  expression,  unparalleled  by  anything  but 
the  sometimes  exceedingly  wise  air  of  a  mischievous  kitten. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Melroy,  endeavoring  to  smile,  after 
Miss  May  had  three  several  times  appealed  to  him  for  his 
opinion,  "  I  think  that  Miss  Loomis  (he  had  never  called  her 
Miss  Loomis  before)  must  be  allowed  to  be  the  exclusive 
judge  of  her  own  actions,  since  she  chooses  to  conceal  her 
motives  from  her  friends." 

"  Some  people  act  without  motive,"  interrupted  Miss  May. 
Mr.  Melroy  shook  his  head  rather  dissentingly. 

"  Light  minds  are  guided  by  impulse,"  pursued  Miss  May. 
Mr.  Melroy  looked  more  determinedly  and  severely  than  ever, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  Impulse,"  observed  Miss  May,  with  a  wondrously  wise 
look,  "  is  a  very  dangerous  guide  —  don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Melroy?" 

"  The  impulse  of  a  bad  heart." 

"  All  hearts  are  depraved,"  continued  Miss  May,  meekly 
folding  her  white  hands,  and  turning  her  eyes  to  the  carpet. 

"  All  happy  hearts,"  interposed  our  May. 

The  young  clergyman  nodded  assent ;  but  it  was  evident 
that  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"  If  cousin  May  would  be  but  a  little  more  sober-minded ! " 
pursued  the  Cloud,  after  a  proper  pause. 

Mr.  Melroy  glanced  at  the  blushing,  half-trembling  May, 
and  appeared  disconcerted. 

"  I  know  she  means  no  harm  —  she  is  so  thoughtless  —  but 
don't  you  really  think  her  exceedingly  indiscreet,  Mr.  Mel 
roy?" 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Loomis,"  said  the  young  clergyman, 
with  a  manner  of  excessive  embarrassment.  "I — •  I  have  no 
right  to  question  the  young  lady's  discretion;  and  if  I  at 
tempted  an  opinion  I  might  speak  too  unguardedly." 

"  So  then  you  are  obliged  to  put  a  guard  upon  your  tongue, 
lest  I  should  learn  that  you  consider  me  a  giddy,  thoughtless, 


OUR  MAY.  125 

imprudent,  heartless  girl ; "  said  our  May,  with  hasty  ear 
nestness  ;  "  but  it  is  unnecessary,  Mr.  Melroy ;  I  knew  your 
opinion  of  me  long  ago." 

"Then  you  know — "began  the  young  pastor,  and  he 
looked  still  more  confused. 

"  Then  why  not  improve  ?"  asked  Miss  May,  in  her  very 
kindest  tone. 

'••'  Because,"  answered  May,  the  incorrigible,  half  recover 
ing  her  gayety,  "  because  my  most  excellent  cousin  has  good 
ness  and  discretion  enough  for  both  of  us ;  or,"  she  added, 
glancing  upward,  with  a  sweetly  sobered  expression  of  coun 
tenance,  "  because  my  Father  gave  me  a  happy  heart  and  too 
many  causes  for  gratitude  to  admit  of  its  learning  the  lesson 
of  sadness." 

Mr.  Melroy  was  about  to  answer,  but  he  was  interrupted, 
by  a  knock  at  the  door ;  and  our  village  physician  entered  in 
great  haste. 

"  I  come,"  said  he  to  our  May,  "  from  O'Neil's  —  the  poor 
woman  is  worse,  and  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  hold  out  much 
longer.  I  advised  them  to  send  for  a  clergyman ;  but  she 
says  no  one  can  pray  for  her  like  the  sweet  young  lady,  who 
visited  her  to-night.  So,  my  dear,  if  you  will  just  jump  into 
my  carriage  your  face  will  do  more  good  than  my  medicine." 

Our  May  snatched  her  bonnet,  without  speaking  a  word, 
or  glancing  at  the  astonished  faces  beside  her ;  and  she  was 
half  way  to  O'Neil's,  before  she  knew  that  Mr.  Melroy  was 
by  her  side,  and  still  held  the  hand  by  which  he  had  assisted 
her  into  the  carriage.  For  some  reason,  though  a  tremor 
crept  from  the  heart  into  that  pretty  prisoned  hand,  our  May 
did  not  think  proper  to  withdraw  it ;  and  soon  all  selfish 
thoughts  were  dissipated  by  the  scene  of  misery  upon  which 
they  entered.  Mrs.  O'Neil  was  already  dead ;  and  the  Mil 
lers,  in  whose  hands  the  kind-hearted  physician  had  left  her, 
were  endeavoring  to  silence  the  clamors  of  the  children,  and 
striving  all  they  could  to  comfort  O'Neil,  who,  with  true  Irish 
eloquence,  was  pouring  out  his  lamentations  over  the  corpse 
of  his  wife. 

11* 


126  OUR    MAY. 

"  An'  there  's  the  swate  leddy  who  spake  the  kind  word  to 
me,"  said  one  of  the  noisy  group,  springing  towards  our  May; 
"  my  mither  said  she  was  heaven's  own  angel,  sure." 

"  Well,  come  to  me,"  said  our  May,  "  and  I  will  speak  to 
you  more  kind  words;  poor  things !  you  need  them  sorely." 

The  children  gathered  around  the  fair  young  girl,  noisily 
at  first ;  but,  as  she  gradually  gained  their  attention,  their 
clamors  ceased ;  and  she  at  last  made  them  consent  to  accom 
pany  father  Miller  to  the  farm-house  where  it  was  thought 
best  for  them  to  remain  until  after  the  funeral  of  their  poor 
mother. 

"  And  you  will  be  very  good  and  quiet,"  said  our  May,  as 
the  noisy  troop  were  preparing  to  leave  the  hut. 

"  Sure  an'  we  will,"  answered  a  bright  boy,  "  if  it  be  only 
for  the  sake  of  ye'r  own  beautiful  face,  Miss." 

Mr.  Melroy  had  succeeded  in  administering  comfort  to 
O'Neil,  who  at  last  consented  to  lie  down  and  rest ;  and  our 
May  bent  like  the  ministering  angel  that  she  was,  over  the 
sick  couch  of  the  two  children,  smoothing  their  pillows  and 
bathing  their  temples. 

"  This  is  a  wretched  family,"  observed  Mr.  Melroy,  turning 
to  Mr.  Day. 

"  Ay,  but  it  would  have  been  more  wretched  still,  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  our  May.  She  came  as  willingly  as  the  like 
of  her  would  walk  into  her  uncle's  parlor,  the  minute  I  made 
her  know  how  much  she  was  needed ;  and  all  these  little 
comforts  are  of  her  ordering.  She  sent,  too,  for  Dr.  Hough- 
ton,  and  left  her  purse  with  me  to  pay  him ;  but  Dr.  Hough- 
ton  says  he  can't  take  money  from  such  an  angel." 

"  Is  she  always  so  ?  "  asked  Melroy,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Always  so !  Bless  your  heart,  don't  you  know  she  's 
always  so,  and  you  the  minister !  Why,  she  is  doing  good 
all  the  time ;  she  's  kind  to  everybody ;  and  no  one  can  help 
loving  her." 

"  No  one  can  help  it,"  answered  Melroy,  involuntarily,  and 
glancing  at  our  May,  who  was  supporting  the  head  of  the 


OUR   MAY.  127 

little  sufferer  on  her  hand,  while  she  was  directing  Mrs.  Day 
how  to  prepare  the  medicine. 

After  the  sick  children  had  been  cared  for,  and  it  was  as 
certained  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Day,  with  one  of  her  sisters, 
would  remain  at  O'Neil's  during  the  night,  Dr.  Houghton, 
with  Mr.  Melroy  and  our  May,  took  leave.  The  drive  home 
was  performed  in  silence ;  and  young  parson  Melroy,  after 
conducting  our  May  to  her  uncle's  door,  pressed  her  hand, 
with  a  whispered  "  God  bless  you  !  "  and  turned  away. 

In  less  than  a  twelvemonth  from  the  death  of  poor  Mrs. 
O'Neil,  very  ominous  preparations  were  going  forward  in  the 
family  mansion  of  'Squire  Loomis.  They  were  ended,  at 
last,  by  the  introduction  of  our  May  to  the  pretty  parsonage  ; 
and,  although  years  have  sobered  her  but  slightly,  though 
her  happy  heart  has  still  "  too  many  causes  for  gratitude  to 
admit  of  its  learning  the  lesson  of  sadness,"  and  she  still  pre 
fers  to  do  good  privately,  her  husband's  is  far  from  being  the 
only  heart  or  the  only  tongue  to  pronounce  the  "  God  bless 
you!" 


128 


THE  WEAVER. 

A  WEAVER  sat  before  his  loom, 

The  shuttle  flinging  fast, 
And  to  his  web  a  thread  of  doom 

Was  added  at  each  cast. 

His  warp  had  been  by  angels  spun ; 

Bright  was  his  weft  and  new, 
Unbraided  from  life's  morning  sun, 

Gemmed  with  life's  morning  dew. 

And  fresh-lipped,  beautiful  young  flowers 

In  tissue  rich  were  spread, 
While  the  weaver  told  the  joy-sped  hours 

By  his  pulse's  bounding  tread. 

But  o'er  his  brow  a  shadow  crept, 

And  on  the  fabric  lay ; 
The  shuttle  faltered  as  it  swept 

Along  its  darkened  way. 

Gray  was  the  faded  thread  it  bore, 
Dimmed  by  the  touch  of  thought ; 

And  tear-like  stains  were  sprinkled  o'er 
The  richest  broideries  wrought. 

Still  kept  the  weaver  weaving  on, 
Though  he  wove  a  texture  gray, 

Its  tissued  brilliance  all  had  gone, 
The  gold  threads  cankered  lay. 

And  still,  with  gathering  mildew,  grew 

Yet  duller  every  thread, 
And  mingled  some  of  coal-black  hue, 

And  some  of  bloody  red. 


THE    WEAVER.  129 

For  things  most  strange  were  woven  in, 

Corroding  griefs  and  fears, — 
And  broken  was  the  web  and  thin, 

And  it  dripped  with  briny  tears. 

He  longed  to  fling  his  toil  aside, 

But  knew  't  would  be  a  sin ; 
So  the  ceaseless  shuttle  still  he  plied, 

Those  life-cords  weaving  in. 

And  as  he  wove,  and  wept,  and  wove, 

Fair  tempters,  stealing  nigh, 
With  glozing  words,  to  win  him  strove, 

But  he  turned  away  his  eye ; 

He  turned  his  aching  eye  to  heaven, 

And  wearily  wove  on, 
Till  life's  last  faltering  cast  was  given, 

The  fabric  strange  was  done. 

He  flung  it  round  his  shoulders  bowed, 

And  o'er  his  grizzled  head, 
And  gathering  close  his  trailing  shroud, 

Lay  down  among  the  dead. 

And  next  I  marked  his  robe's  wide  folds, 

As  they  swept  the  fields  of  air, 
Bright  as  the  arc  the  sunlight  moulds, 

As  angel  pinions  fair. 

And  there  inwrought  was  each  bright  flower, 

As  when  at  first  it  sprung : 
The  fairy  work  of  morning's  hour 

In  morning  freshness  hung. 

And  where  a  tear  had  left  its  stain 

A  snow-white  lily  lay, 
And  the  leaden  tracery  of  pain 

Linked  many  a  jewel's  ray. 


130 


THE    WEAVER. 

Wherever  Grief's  meek  breath  had  swept 

There  dwelt  a  rich  perfume. 
And  bathed  in  silvery  moonlight  slept 

The  sable  work  of  gloom. 

And  then  I  prayed  : — the  strange  web  done, 

To  my  frail  fingers  given, 
Be  Sorrow's  stain  the  deepest  one 

To  mar  my  robe  in  heaven. 


131 


SAVE    THE    BERING! 

THERE  was  bustle  in  the  little  dressing-room  of  young  Ella 
Lane  ;  a  dodging  about  of  lights,  a  constant  tramping  of  a  fat, 
good-natured  serving-maid,  a  flitting  of  curious,  smiling  little 
girls,  and  a  disarranging  of  drapery  and  furniture,  not  very 
often  occurring  in  this  quiet,  tasteful  corner.  An  arch-looking 
miss  of  twelve  was  standing  before  a  basket  of  flowers,  se 
lecting  the  choicest,  and  studying  carefully  their  arrangement, 
with  parted  lips  and  eyes  demurely  downcast;  as  though 
thinking  of  the  time  when  the  little  fairy  watching  so  intently 
by  her  side,  would  perform  the  same  service  for  her.  On  the 
bed  lay  a  light,  fleecy  dress  of  white,  with  silver  cords  and 
clusters  of  silver  leaves,  and  sashes  of  a  pale  blue,  and  others 
of  a  still  paler  pink,  and  here  and  there  a  little  wreath  of 
flowers,  or  a  small  bunch  of  marabouts  —  in  short,  ornaments 
enough  to  crush  one  person,  had  their  weight  been  at  all  pro 
portioned  to  their  bulk.  Immediately  opposite  a  small  pier- 
glass,  sat  a  girl  of  seventeen,  in  half  undress,  her  full,  round 
arms  shaded  only  by  a  fold  of  linen  at  the  shoulder,  and  her 
eye  resting  very  complacently  on  the  little  foot  placed  some 
what  ostentatiously  upon  an  ottoman  before  her.  And,  indeed, 
that  foot  was  a  very  dainty -looking  thing,  in  its  close-fitting 
slipper,  altogether  unequalled  by  anything  but  the  finely 
curved  and  tapered  ankle  so  fully  revealed  above  it.  Imme 
diately  behind  the  chair  of  the  young  lady,  stood  a  fair,  mild- 
looking  matron ;  her  slender  fingers  carefully  thridding  the 
masses  of  hair  mantling  the  ivory  neck  and  shoulders  of  her 
eldest  daughter,  preparatory  to  platting  it  into  those  long 
braids  so  well  calculated  to  display  the  contour  of  a  fine  head. 
There  was  a  smile  upon  the  mother's  lip,  not  like  that  dim 
pling  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  of  the  little  bouquet-maker, 
but  a  pleased,  gratified  smile,  and  yet  half-shadowed  over  by 


132  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

a  strange  anxiety,  that  she  seemed  striving  to  conceal  from 
her  happy  children.  Sometimes  her  fingers  paused  in  their 
graceful  employment,  and  her  eye  rested  vacantly  wherever 
it  chanced  to  fall ;  and  then,  with  an  effort,  the  listlessness 
passed,  and  the  smile  came  back,  though  manifestly  tempered 
by  some  heaviness  clinging  to  the  heart. 

At  last  the  young  girl  was  arrayed ;  each  braid  in  its  place, 
and  a  wreath  of  purple  buds  falling  behind  the  ear ;  her  sim 
ple  dress  floating  about  her  slight  figure  like  an  airy  cloud, 
every  fold  arranged  by  a  mother's  careful  ringers ;  her  white 
kid  gloves  drawn  upon  her  hands,  and  fan,  bouquet  and  ker 
chief,  all  in  readiness.  The  large,  warm  shawl  had  been 
carefully  laid  upon  her  shoulders,  the  mother's  kiss  was  on 
her  bright  cheek,  and  a  "  don't  stay  late,  dear,"  in  her  ear  ; 
she  had  shaken  her  fan  at  the  saucy  Nelly,  and  pinched 
the  cheek  of  Rosa,  and  was  now  toying  with  little  Susy's 
fingers,  when  the  head  of  the  serving-maid  was  again  thrust 
in  at  the  door,  to  hasten  the  arrangements.  Ella  tripped  gaily 
down  stairs,  but  when  she  reached  the  bottom,  she  paused. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  go  without  you,  mamma." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  must,  dear ;  but  I  hope  you  will  find 
it  very  pleasant." 

"  It  will  be  pleasant,  I  have  no  doubt;  but,  mamma,  I  am 
afraid  that  you  are  not  quite  well,  or,  perhaps,"  she  whis 
pered,  "  you  have  something  to  trouble  you ;  if  so,  I  should 
like  very  much  to  stay  with  you." 

"  No,  dear;  I  am  well,  quite  well,  and  — "  Mrs.  Lane  did 
not  say  happy,  for  the  falsehood  died  on  her  lip  ;  but  she 
smiled  so  cheerily,  and  her  eye  looked  so  clear  and  bright  as 
it  met  her  daughter's,  that  Ella  took  it  for  a  negative. 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is,  mamma ;  you  are  afraid  my  new 
frock  is  prettier  than  any  of  yours ;  and  you  don't  mean  to  be 
outshone  by  little  people.  Do  you  know,  I  shall  tell  Mrs. 
Witman  all  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  let  you  tell  anything  that  you  choose,  so  that  you 
do  not  show  too  much  vanity ;  but  don't  stay  late.  Good 
night,  darling." 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  133 

"  Good-night,  till  sleeping-time,  mamma."  And,  with  a 
light  laugh,  Ella  Lane  left  her  mother's  side  and  sprang  into 
the  carriage. 

When  Mrs.  Lane  turned  from  the  door,  the  smile  had  en 
tirely  disappeared,  and  an  expression  of  anxious  solicitude 
occupied  its  place.  While  the  joyous  children  went  bound 
ing  on  before  her,  she  paused  beneath  the  hall  lamp,  and 
pulling  a  scrap  of  paper  from  her  bosom,  read  — 

"Do  not  go  out  to-night,  dear  mother;  I  must  see  you. 
HE  will  not  come  in  before  eleven  —  I  will  be  with  you  at 
ten." 

It  was  written  in  a  hurried,  irregular  hand,  and  was  with 
out  signature;  but  it  needed  none. 

"  My  poor,  poor  boy !  "  murmured  the  now  almost  weeping 
mother,  as  she  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hand  and  laid  it 
back  upon  her  heart.  "  It  may  be  wrrong  to  deceive  HIM  so  : 
but  how  can  a  mother  refuse  to  see  the  son  she  has  carried 
in  her  arms  and  nursed  upon  her  bosom  ?  Poor  Robert !  " 

Ay,  poor  Robert,  indeed  !  the  only  son  of  one  of  the  proud 
est  and  wealthiest  citizens  of  New  York,  and  yet  without  a 
shelter  for  his  head ! 

Mr.  Lane  had  lived  a  bachelor  until  the  age  of  forty-two, 
when  he  married  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen ;  the  mother 
whom  we  have  already  introduced  to  our  readers.  She  was 
gentle  and  complying;  hence,  the  rigid  sternness  of  his  char 
acter,  which  so  many  years  of  loneliness  had  by  no  means 
tended  to  soften,  seldom  had  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  itself. 
But  the  iron  was  all  there,  though  buried  for  a  time  in  the 
flowers  which  love  had  nursed  into  bloom  above  it.  The 
eldest  of  their  children  was  a  boy  ;  a  frank,  heartsome,  rnerry 
fellow  —  a  lamb  to  those  who  would  condescend  to  lead  him 
by  love ;  but  exhibiting,  even  in  infancy,  an  indomitable  will, 
that  occasioned  the  young  mother  many  an  anxious  foreboding. 
But  as  the  boy  grew  toward  manhood,  a  new  and  deeper 
cause  for  anxiety  began  to  appear.  To  Robert's  gayety  were 
added  other  qualities  that  made  him  a  fascinating  companion  ; 
his  society  was  constantly  sought,  first  by  the  families  in 
12 


134 


SAVE    THE    ERRING. 


which  his  parents  were  on  terms  of  intimacy,  and  then  by 
others,  and  still  others,  till  Mrs.  Lane  began  to  tremble  lest 
among  her  son's  associates  might  be  found  some  of  excep 
tionable  character.  By  degrees  he  spent  fewer  evenings  at 
home,  went  out  with  her  less  frequently,  and  accounted  for 
his  absence  less  satisfactorily.  Then  she  spoke  to  him  upon 
the  subject,  and  received  his  assurance  that  all  was  well,  that 
she  need  not  be  troubled  about  his  falling  into  bad  company. 

But  she  was  troubled. 

There  was  at  evening  a  wild  sparkle  in  the  boy's  eye,  and 
an  unnatural  glow  upon  his  cheek,  that  told  of  unhealthy 
excitement ;  but  in  the  morning  it  was  all  gone,  and  his  gay- 
ety,  sometimes  his  cheerfulness,  fled  with  it.  Oh  !  what  sick 
ness  of  heart  can  compare  with  that  indefinable  fear,  that 
foreshadowing  of  evil,  which  will  sometimes  creep  in  between 
our  trust  and  our  love ;  while  we  dare  not  show  to  the  object 
of  it,  much  less  to  others,  anything  but  a  smiling  lip  and  a 
serene  brow.  Mrs.  Lane  was  anxious,  but  she  confined  her 
anxiety  to  her  own  bosom  ;  not  even  whispering  it  to  her 
husband,  lest  he  should  ridicule  it  on  the  one  hand,  or,  on 
the  other,  exercise  a  severity  which  should  lead  to  a  collision. 
But  matters  grew  worse  and  worse  constantly;  Robert  was 
now  seldom  home  till  late  at  night,  and  then  he  came  heated 
and  flurried,  and  hastened  away  to  bed,  as  though  his  moth 
er's  loving  eye  were  a  monitor  he  could  not  meet.  She 
sought  opportunities  to  warn  him,  as  she  had  formerly  done, 
but  he  feared  and  evaded  them ;  and  so  several  more  weeks 
passed  by  —  weeks  of  more  importance  than  many  a  life-time. 
Finally  Mrs.  Lane  became  seriously  alarmed,  and  consulted 
her  husband. 

"  I  have  business  with  you  to-night,  Robert,"  said  Mr. 
Lane,  pointedly,  as  the  boy  was  going  out  after  dinner,  "  and 
will  see  you  in  the  library  at  nine  o'clock." 

"I  —  I  —  have  —  an  engagement,  sir.  If  some  othei 
hour  —  " 

"  No  other  hour  will  do.  You  have  no  engagement  that 
will  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  those  I  make  for  you." 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  135 

Robert  was  about  to  answer  —  perhaps  angrily  —  when  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  mother.  Her  face  was  of  an  ashy 
hue,  and  a  large  tear  was  trembling  in  her  eye.  He  turned 
hastily  away  and  hurried  along  the  hall ;  but  before  he 
reached  the  street  door,  her  hand  was  upon  his  arm,  and  she 
whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Meet  your  father  at  nine,  as  he  has 
bidden  you,  Robert;  and  do  not  —  for  my  sake,  for  your 
mother's  sake,  dear  Robert  —  do  not  say  anything  to  exas 
perate  him." 

"  Do  not  fear,  mother,"  he  answered,  in  a  subdued  tone ; 
then,  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  he  muttered,  "he  will 
be  exasperated  enough  with  little  saying,  if  his  business  is 
what  I  suspect.  What  a  fool  I  have  been  —  mad  —  mad  ! 
I  wish  I  had  told  him  at  first,  without  waiting  to  be  driven  to 
it;  but  now  —  well,  I  will  make  one  more  attempt  —  desperate 
it  must  be  —  and  then,  if  the  worst  comes,  he  will  only  pun 
ish  me;  that  I  can  bear  patiently,  for  I  deserve  it;  but  it 
would  kill  my  poor  mother  —  oh  !  he  must  not  tell  her  !  " 

Mrs.  Lane  started  nervously  at  every  ring  of  the  door-bell 
that  evening ;  and  when  at  nine  she  heard  it,  she  could  not 
forbear  stepping  into  the  hall  to  see  who  was  admitted.  It 
was  her  husband  ;  and  only  waiting  to  inquire  of  the  girl  if 
Mr.  Robert  had  yet  come  in,  he  passed  on  to  the  library. 
Mrs.  Lane  found  it  more  difficult  than  ever  to  sustain  con 
versation ;  she  became  abstracted,  nervous;  and  when,  at  last, 
her  few  evening  visiters  departed,  she  was  so  manifestly  re 
lieved,  that  Ella  inquired,  in  surprise,  if  anything  had  been 
said  or  done  to  annoy  her.  It  was  past  ten,  and  Robert  had 
not  yet  appeared.  Finally  the  bell  was  pulled  violently,  and 
she  hastened  to  the  door  herself.  With  livid  lip  and  blood 
shot  eye,  her  son  stepped  to  the  threshold  ;  and,  starting  at 
sight  of  her,  he  hurried  away  to  the  library,  without  giving 
her  another  glance.  How  slowly  passed  the  moments  to  the 
waiting  mother !  How  she  longed  to  catch  but  a  tone  of  those 
voices,  both  so  loved ;  that  she  might  know  whether  they 
sounded  in  confidence  or  anger !  What  Robert's  course  had 
been  she  could  not  guess ;  but  she  knew  that  he  would  be 


136 


SAVE    THE    ERRIXG. 


required  to  give  a  strict  account  of  himself;  and  she  dreaded 
the  effect  of  her  husband's  well-known  severity.  A  few  min 
utes  passed,  (they  seemed  an  age  to  her,)  and  then  she  heard 
the  door  of  the  library  thrown  open ;  and,  a  moment  after,  a 
quick,  light  step  sounded  upon  the  stairs.  It  was  Robert's. 

"  You  are  not  going  out  again,  my  son  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Father  will  tell  you  why  I  go,  dear  mother,"  said  the 
boy,  pausing,  and  pressing  her  hand  affectionately.  "  I  must 
not  wait  to  answer  questions  now."  He  passed  on  till  he 
reached  the  door,  then  turning  back,  whispered,  "  Be  at  Mrs. 
Hinman's  to-morrow  evening,  mother,"  and  before  she  had 
time  to  ask  a  question  or  utter  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  he 
had  disappeared  up  the  street. 

But  poor  Mrs.  Lane  was  soon  made  acquainted  with  the 
truth.  Mr.  Lane  was  somewhat  vexed  with  himself  for  not 
perceiving  his  son's  tendency  to  error  before ;  and,  like  many 
another,  he  seemed  resolved  to  make  up  in  decision  what  he 
had  lost  by  blindness.  It  was  this  which  had  occasioned  his 
sharpness  when  he  made  the  appointment,  and  he  considered 
his  dignity  compromised  when  nine  o'clock  passed  and  his 
son  seemed  resolved  on  acting  in  open  disobedience  to  his 
command.  An  hour's  ruminating  on  the  subject  did  not  tend 
to  soften  his  feelings ;  and  when,  at  last,  the  culprit  appeared, 
he  was  in  a  mood  for  anything  but  mercy.  He  demanded 
peremptorily  a  full  confession  ;  and  Robert  gave  it.  He  did 
not  color,  soften,  nor  extenuate  ;  but  boldly  —  too  boldly,  per 
haps —  declaring  that  he  scorned  falsehood,  he  told  the  whole. 
He  had  fallen  into  gay  society,  then  into  vicious ;  and  he  was 
not  the  one  to  occupy  a  minor  position  anywhere.  Wit  and 
wine  seduced  him ;  and  in  an  evil  hour  he  sat  down  to  the 
gaming-table.  He  had  played  at  first  for  a  trivial  stake,  then 
more  deeply,  and  to-night,  in  the  hope  of  retrieving  his  bad 
fortune,  he  had  plunged  in  almost  past  extrication.  At  any 
time  Mr.  Lane  would  have  been  shocked ;  now  he  was  exas 
perated,  and  spoke  bitterly.  At  first  Robert  did  not  retort, 
for  he  had  come  in  resolved  on  confession  and  reformation ; 
but  finally  repentance  was  drowned  in  anger,  and  he  answered 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  137 

as  a  son,  particularly  an  erring  son,  should  not.  Then  a  few 
more  words  ensued,  unreasonable  on  both  sides ;  Mr.  Lane 
asserting  that  debts  so  contracted  were  dishonest  ones,  and 
should  not  be  paid ;  and  Robert  declaring  that  they  should  be 
paid,  if  he  gamed  his  lifelong  to  win  the  money ;  till,  finally, 
the  old  man's  rage  became  uncontrollable.  It  was  in  obedi 
ence  to  his  father's  command  that  Robert  left  his  home  that 
night,  with  the  order  never  to  cross  the  threshold  again. 

For  two  or  three  weeks,  Mrs.  Lane,  now  and  then,  of  an 
evening,  met  her  son  at  the  houses  of  her  friends ;  and  then 
he  disappeared  almost  entirely.  While  she  could  meet  him, 
and  speak  a  few  words,  even  in  a  gay  party,  and  perceive 
that  he  regarded  her  with  as  much  affection  as  ever,  she  con 
tinued  strong  in  the  hope  of  final  reformation  and  reconcilia 
tion  ;  but  when,  evening  after  evening,  she  carried  a  hoping 
heart  abroad,  and  dragged  home  a  disappointed  one,  imagi 
nation  busied  itself  with  a  thousand  horrors.  Her  first-born, 
her  only  son,  the  darling  of  her  young  heart,  her  pride  in  the 
first  years  of  wedded  life,  he  whom  she  had  loved  so  fondly, 
and  cherished  so  tenderly  —  to  what  vice,  what  suffering, 
might  not  he  be  exposed  !  Then  she  had  no  confidant,  no 
friend  to  sympathize  with  or  encourage  her.  Since  the  first 
disclosure,  she  had  never  mentioned  Robert's  name  to  her 
husband,  and  Ella  knew  only  that  some  angry  words  had 
estranged  her  father  and  brother  for  a  time ;  she  was  enviably 
ignorant  of  Robert's  guilt  and  danger. 

The  evening  on  which  our  story  commences,  Mrs.  Lane 
had  intended  to  spend  abroad  with  her  daughter ;  but  had 
been  prevented  by  the  receipt  of  the  note  above  mentioned. 
Robert  had  never  been  home  since  he  was  commanded  to 
leave  it ;  and  though  anxious  both  about  the  cause  and  result, 
she  could  not  but  be  rejoiced  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him 
again  in  her  own  private  sitting-room.  She  had  many  things, 
too,  to  learn.  She  wished  to  know  where  he  lived,  how  he 
supported  himself,  and  what  were  his  intentions  for  the  future. 
And  she  wished  to  expostulate  with  and  advise  him ;  —  in 


138  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

short,  her  mother's  heart  told  her  that  everything  could  be 
done  in  that  one  evening. 

While  Mrs.  Lane  walked  up  and  down  her  little  sitting 
-room,  wishing  that  ten  o'clock  would  come,  her  son  entered 
his  small,  scantily  furnished  apartment  in  a  decent  boarding- 
house,  and  throwing  himself  upon  the  only  chair  within  it,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  in 
this  position  ;  then  he  arose,  and  taking  down  a  pocket-pistol, 
examined  it  carefully,  primed  it,  and  laid  it  beneath  his  pil 
low.  Immediately,  however,  he  took  it  out,  charged  it  heav 
ily,  and  laying  it  on  the  table,  folded  his  arms  and  gazed  upon 
it,  muttering,  "  It  may  be  needed  when  I  least  expect  it.  I 
have  one  friend,  at  least,  while  this  is  by."  After  pacing  two 
or  three  times  across  the  narrow  space  between  his  bed-head 
and  the  little  window  at  the  foot,  he  opened  the  door  of  a 
small  closet,  and  taking  thence  a  cloak  and  muffler,  carefully 
adjusted  them  ;  then  slouching  a  broad-brimmed  hat  over  his 
eyes,  he  hurried  down  the  stairs  into  the  street.  Two  or 
three  times  Robert  Lane  paused  and  reasoned  with  himself, 
before  he  reached  his  father's  door ;  and  even  when  his  hand 
was  extended  to  the  bell-knob,  he  hesitated. 

"  I  must  see  her,  at  any  risk,"  he  at  last  exclaimed,  pulling 
lightly  upon  the  cord. 

The  girl  started  when  she  opened  the  door,  but  gave  no 
other  token  of  recognition.  Robert  inquired  for  Mrs.  Lane  ; 
and  following  after  the  girl,  found  himself  in  the  back  sitting- 
room,  remembered  but  too,  too  fondly  for  his  composure.  As 
soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  he  cast  off  his  mufflings, 
and  throwing  himself  upon  a  little  ottoman  at  his  mother's 
feet,  leaned  his  forehead  on  her  knees. 

"  Is  it  any  new  trouble,  Robert  ?  "  she  inquired,  tenderly, 
and  laying  her  hand  gently  on  his  head,  "  any  new —  guilt  ?  " 
she  whispered,  bending  her  lips  close  to  his  ear,  and  placing 
the  other  arm  over  his  neck. 

"Tell  your  mother,  Robert — tell  her  everything — she 
may  help  you  —  she  will — oh,  Robert !  you  know  she  will 
love  you,  and  cling  to  you  through  it  all ! " 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  139 

The  boy  raised  his  head,  and  now  she  saw,  for  the  first 
time,  the  change  that  had  come  over  him.  His  face  was 
haggard,  his  eye  sunk  and  bloodshot,  that  round,  rosy  cheek, 
which  her  lip  had  loved  to  meet,  had  grown  pale  and  thin, 
and,  in  place  of  the  gay,  careless  smile,  had  risen  looks  of 
anxiety  and  bitterness. 

"  I  shall  break  your  heart,  mother,"  he  said,  sorrowfully, 
"  and  poor  little  Ella's,  too.  Oh !  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to 
murder  those  one  loves  best.  I  never  meant  to  do  it — try 
to  believe  that,  dear  mother,  whatever  comes." 

"  I  do  believe  it,  Robert." 

"  Ah!  you  know  only  a  small  part  yet ;  but  I  could  not  go 
away  without  seeing  and  telling  you.  I  knew  you  would 
learn  it  from  others,  and  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  you  could 
love  me  after  all.  I  knew  you  would,  but  I  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  it." 

"  I  will,  Robert,  I  will ;  but  surely  you  have  nothing  worse 
to  tell  than  I  know  already!" 

The  boy  looked  down;  his  lip  quivered,  and  the  large 
purple  veins  upon  his  forehead  worked  themselves  into  knots, 
and  rose  and  fell  as  though  ready  to  burst  at  every  throb. 

She  passed  her  hand  soothingly  over  them. 

"  Whatever  it  is,  Robert,  you  are  not  before  a  harsh  judge 
now.  Tell  it  to  your  mother,  my  darling  boy ;  perhaps  she 
can  assist,  advise  —  she  certainly  can  love  you  through  all." 

"  Oh,  mother!  you  must  not  speak  so,  or  I  can  never  tell 
you.  If  you  talk  like  this  —  if  you  do  not  blame  me,  I  shall 
almost  wish  I  had  gone  away  without  seeing  you.  Oh!  if  I 
had  only  listened  to  you  six  months  ago !  but  they  flattered 
me,  and  I  was  foolish,  I  was  wicked.  But  I  thought  of  you 
all  the  time,  mother — of  you  and  Ella — and  I  promised 
myself,  every  night  when  I  went  to  my  pillow,  that  I  would 
break  away  from  the  things  that  were  entangling  me,  and 
become  all  that  you  desired.  I  was  not  conscious  then  of 
doing  anything  decidedly  wrong ;  but  I  knew  that  my  com 
panions  were  not  such  as  you  would  approve,  and  I  knew — 
I  could  but  know — that  I  was  too  much  intoxicated  by  their 


140  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

flatteries.  At  last  I  resorted  to  cards;  I  played  very  cau 
tiously  at  first,  and  only  to  do  as  others  did,  then  for  larger 
sums,  and  again  still  larger ;  till  finally  it  became  my  sole 
object  to  recover  the  moneys  I  had  lost,  and  thus  prevent  the 
necessity  of  applying  to  my  father  for  more.  I  still  lost,  and 
still  went  on,  till  finally  the  discovery,  which,  I  believe,  dear 
mother,  all  in  kindness,  you  brought  about,  was  made.  Per 
haps  I  was  in  the  wrong,  but,  mother,  it  did  seem  to  me  dis 
honorable  to  refuse  to  pay  those  debts  which  — " 

"  Your  father  was  angry,  or  he  would  not  have  refused. 
You  tried  his  patience,  Kobert,  and  then,  I  fear,  you  were 
more  bold  than  conciliatory." 

"  I  made  one  more  attempt  to  better  my  fortunes  that  even 
ing,  and  the  time  passed  before  I  was  aware  of  it ;  I  prom 
ised —  I  told  them  —  those  scoffers,  mother  —  that  it  was  my 
last  evening  among  them  ;  I  promised  myself  so,  and  repeated 
it  to  my  father;  and  I  would  have  kept  my  promise  —  I  would. 
But  you  know  how  it  turned.  Then  I  was  desperate." 

Mrs.  Lane  trembled,  and  passed  her  arm  caressingly  about 
his  neck,  as  though  to  reassure  him.  "  I  met  you  several 
times  after  that,  Robert,  and  you  did  not  seem  so  very  un 
happy." 

"  I  was  determined  to  have  the  money,  mother,  and  I  got  it." 

"How,  Robert?" 

"  Not  honestly." 

The  boy's  voice  was  low  and  husky ;  and  his  hand,  as  it 
closed  over  his  mother's  while  his  forehead  again  rested  on 
her  knees,  was  of  a  death-like  chilliness. 

A  faintness  came  over  her,  a  horrid  feeling  went  curdling 
round  her  heart,  and  she  felt  as  though  her  breath  was  going 
away  from  her.  But  the  cold  hand  was  freezing  about  hers, 
the  throbbing  forehead  rested  on  her  knees,  and  every  sob,  as 
it  burst  forth  uncontrolledly,  fell  like  a  crushing  weight  upon 
her  bosom.  It  was  the  mother's  pitying  heart,  that,  subduing 
its  own  emotions,  enabled  her  again  to  articulate,  though  in  a 
low  whisper,  "  How,  Robert?" 

"  By  forgery.     No  matter  for  the  particulars  —  I  could  not 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  141 

tell  them  now,  and  you  could  not  hear.  To-morrow  all  will 
be  discovered,  and  I  must  escape.  Such  fear,  such  agony  — 
oh,  mother !  what  have  I  not  endured  ?  No  punishment  men 
can  inflict  will  ever  be  half  so  heavy.  I  deserve  it,  though 
—  all,  and  ten  thousand  times  more.  But  I  never  meant  it 
should  come  to  this,  mother;  believe  me,  I  never  did.  I 
meant  to  pay  it  before  now,  and  I  thought  I  could.  I  have 
won  some  money,  but  not  half — scarce  a  tithe  of  what  I 
ought  to  have,  so  there  is  nothing  left  but  flight  and  disgrace. 
You  do  not  answer  me,  mother  ;  I  knew  I  should  break  your 
heart,  I  knew — " 

Mrs.  Lane  made  a  strong  effort,  and  murmured  brokenly, 

"  To-morrow  —  to-morrow !     Oh  !  my  poor,  ruined  boy  ! " 

"  I  know  that  after  deeds  cannot  compensate,  mother ;  but 
if  a  life  of  rectitude,  if — "  Robert  paused  suddenly  and 
started  to  his  feet.  "  I  know  that  step,  mother  ! " 

"  Hush,  my  son,  hush  ! "  Mrs.  Lane  had  time  for  no  more 
before  her  husband  entered  the  apartment.  A  cloud  instantly 
overspread  his  countenance. 

"  You  here,  sirrah  !  What  business  brings  you  to  the 
home  you  have  desecrated  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  see  my  mother,  sir." 

"  Nay,"  interposed  the  lady,  anticipating  the  storm  that 
seemed  gathering  on  her  husband's  brow,  "  let  the  fault  be 
mine.  He  is  my  own  child,  and  I  must  see  him  —  a  little 
while  —  you  cannot  refuse  to  leave  me  a  little  while  with  my 
own  boy." 

"  It  is  the  last  time,  then,"  said  Mr.  Lane,  sternly. 

"  The  last  time ! "  echoed  Robert,  in  a  tone  of  mocking 
bitterness. 

"  The  last  time  ! "  whispered  the  white  lips  of  the  mother, 
as  though  she  had  but  that  moment  comprehended  it ;  and,  as 
the  door  closed  upon  the  retreating  form  of  her  husband,  she 
slid  to  the  floor,  lightly  and  unresistingly.  Robert  did  not 
attempt  to  call  for  assistance ;  but  he  raised  her  head  to  his 
bosom,  and  covered  her  pale  face  with  his  boyish  tears. 

"  I  have  killed  her  !  my  poor,  poor  mother  ! "  he  sobbed. 


142  SAVE    THE   BERING. 

"  That  I  should  be  such  a  wretch  !  I!  her  son  I — with  all 
her  care  and  with  all  her  love  !  Oh  !  if  they  had  but  given 
me  a  coffin  for  a  cradle  !  A  grave  then  would  have  been  a 
blessed  thing  j  but  it  is  too  late  now,  too  late  ! " 

Mrs.  Lane  was  awakened  by  the  warm  tears  raining  upon 
her  face ;  and,  starting  up  wildly,  she  entreated  him  to  be 
gone.  "  Every  moment  is  precious  ! "  she  exclaimed,  gasp 
ingly.  "  You  may  not  make  your  escape  if  you  do  not  go 
now.  Oh,  Kobert !  promise  me  —  on  your  knees,  before 
your  mother,  and  in  the  sight  of  your  God,  promise,  my  poor 
boy,  that  you  ivill  forsake  the  ways  of  vice,  that  you  will 
become  an  honorable  and  a  useful  man  —  promise  this,  Rob 
ert,  and  then  go  !  Your  mother,  who  has  gloried,  who  has 
doted  on  you,  entreats  you  to  be  gone  from  her  forever  !" 

"  I  cannot  go  to-night,  mother.  I  waited  to  see  you,  and 
so  lost  the  opportunity  ;  but  there  is  no  danger.  It  is  too  late 
to  take  a  boat  now.  I  shall  go  to  some  of  the  landings  above 
when  I  leave  here,  and  in  the  morning  go  aboard  the  first  boat 
that  passes." 

Again  the  mother  required  the  promise  of  reformation ; 
and  it  was  given  earnestly  and  solemnly.  Then  he  again  sat 
down  on  the  ottoman  at  Jier  feet ;  and,  with  one  hand  laid 
lovingly  upon  his  head,  and  the  other  clasped  in  both  of  his, 
she  spent  an  hour  in  soothing,  counselling,  and  admonishing 
him.  So  deeply  were  both  engaged,  that  neither  the  merry 
voice  of  Ella  in  the  door- way,  nor  her  step  along  the  hall, 
reached  them. 

"•  Has  my  mother  retired  ?  "  was  her  first  inquiry. 

"  No,  miss ;  she  is  in  the  back  sitting-room,"  and  before 
the  girl  could  add  that  she  was  engaged  with  a  stranger,  Ella 
had  bounded  to  the  door,  and  flung  it  wide  open. 

"  Robert !  —  you  here,  Robert !  If  I  had  only  known  it,  I 
should  have  been  home  long  ago.  So  you  are  sorry  you 
quarrelled  with  papa,  and  you  have  come  back  to  be  a  good 
boy,  and  go  out  with  me  when  I  want  a  nice  beau,  and  all 
that !  Well,  it  does  look  natural  to  see  you  here." 

As  the  young  girl  spoke  she  cast  hood  and  shawl  upon  the 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  143 

floor ;  and,  with  one  bared  arm  thrown  carelessly  over  her 
brother's  shoulder,  she  crouched  at  her  mother's  feet,  looking 
into  her  eyes  with  an  expression  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Now 
tell  me  all  about  it.  You  must  have  had  strange  doings  this 
evening." 

But  neither  Mrs.  Lane  nor  Robert  spoke.  The  boy  only 
strained  his  sister  convulsively  to  his  heart ;  while  the  poor 
mother  covered  her  own  face  with  her  hands  to  hide  the  tears, 
which,  nevertheless,  found  their  way  between  her  jewelled 
fingers. 

The  eyes  of  the  fair  girl  turned  from  one  to  another  in 
amazement;  then,  pressing  her  lips  to  the  cheek  of  her 
brother,  she  whispered, 

"  What  is  it,  Robin  ?  Has  papa  refused  to  let  you  come 
back  ?  I  will  ask  him  ;  I  will  tell  him  you  must  come,  and 
then  you  will,  for  he  never  refused  me  anything.  Don't  cry, 
mamma  ;  I  will  go  up  stairs  now,  and  have  it  settled.  Papa 
cannot  say  no  to  me,  of  course,  for  I  have  on  the  very  dress 
he  selected  himself,  and  he  said  I  should  be  irresistible  in  it. 
I  will  remind  him  of  that." 

"  Alas  !  my  poor  Ella  ! "  sobbed  Mrs.  Lane,  "  this  trouble 
is  too  great  for  you  to  settle.  Our  Robert  has  come  home 
now  for  the  last  time  —  we  part  from  him  to-night  forever." 

"  Forever  ! "  and  Ella's  cheek  turned  as  pale  as  the  white 
glove  which  she  raised  to  push  back  the  curls  from  her  fore 
head. 

"  Yes,  forever,"  answered  Robert,  calmly,  "  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it,  Ella.  You  seem  not  to  know  that  it  was  some 
thing  worse  than  a  quarrel  which  lost  me  my  home.  I  had 
contracted  debts  —  improperly,  wickedly  —  and  my  father 
refused  to  pay  them.  I  obtained  the  money  for  the  purpose, 
and  now,  Ella,  I  must  escape  or  —  or — " 

"  How  did  you  get  the  money,  Robert  ?  " 

The  boy  answered  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  ! "  exclaimed  Ella,  springing  to  her  feet  and  speak 
ing  almost  scornfully  ;  "  you,  Robert  Lane  !  my  brother  !  Is 
it  so,  mamma  ?  is  my  brother  a  villain,  a  forger,  is  he—  " 


144  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

"  Hush,  Ella,  hush  !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Lane.  "  It  is  for 
those  who  have  hard  hearts  to  condemn  —  not  for  thee,  my 
daughter.  There  will  be  insults  enough  heaped  upon  his 
poor  head  to-morrow  —  let  him  at  least  have  love  and  pity 
here." 

"  Pity  !    Whom  did  he  pity  or  love  when  he  deliberately — " 

"  Ella  !  Ella  !  "  again  interposed  Mrs.  Lane,  almost  sternly. 

"  Nay,  mother,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  tone  of  touching  mourn- 
fulness,  "  do  not  blame  poor  Ella.  She  does  right  to  despise 
me.  I  nave  outraged  her  feelings,  and  disgraced  her  name. 
She  deserves  pity,  and  she  will  need  it,  when  people  point  at 
her  and  say  what  her  brother  is.  J  have  forfeited  all  claim 
even  to  that.  Oh,  mother !  why  did  you  riot  let  me  die  in 
that  last  sickness?  it  would  have  saved  a  world  of  woe." 

Ella  stood  for  a  moment,  her  head  erect,  and  her  lip  white 
and  tremulous,  while  tears  came  crowding  to  her  eyes,  and 
her  face  worked  with  emotion ;  the  next  she  threw  herself 
into  the  arms  of  her  brother. 

"  Forgive  me,  Robin  !  my  own  dear,  darling  brother  !  I  do 
pity  you  !  I  do  love  you,  and  will  forever  !  But,  oh  !  it  is  a 
horrible  thing  to  be  a  forger's  sister  !  I  cannot  forget  that, 
Robert,  and  I  must  say  it,  if  it  break  your  heart  to  hear  me, 
it  is  horrible  !  horrible  ! " 

"  It  is  horrible,  Ella ;  I  never  thought  to  bring  it  upon  you, 
but—" 

"  Why  are  you  here,  Robert  ?  Will  they  not  find  you,  and 
drag  you  —  oh,  mamma  !  where  shall  we  hide  him  ?  —  what 
can  we  do  ? " 

It  was  several  minutes  before  Ella  could  be  made  to  com 
prehend  the  absence  of  immediate  danger ;  and  then  she 
insisted  on  hearing  all  the  particulars  of  the  crime,  even 
though  poor  Robert  appeared  to  be  on  the  rack  while  giving 
them.  She  loved  her  brother  dearly,  and  was  distressed  for 
him ;  but  she  thought  too  of  herself,  and  the  disgrace  of  her 
family ;  hers  was  not  a  mother's  meek,  affectionate  heart ;  a 
mother's  all-enduring,  self-sacrificing  nature.  At  last  she 
started  up  eagerly. 


SAVE   THE   ERRING.  145 

"  The  disgrace  may  be  avoided  ;  papa  will  of  course  shield 
his  own  name  ;  I  will  go  to  him  directly." 

"  But  the  sin,  my  child,  the  conscious  degradation  ? "  in 
quired  Mrs.  Lane,  with  reproof  in  her  mild  eye.  "  What 
will  you  do  with  that,  Ella  ?  " 

"Poor  Robert!"    whispered  the  girl,  again  folding  hef^ 
white  arms  about  him  ;   "  he  is  sorry  for  what  he  has  done  ; 
and  our  kind  Heavenly  Father  is  more  ready  to  forgive  than     /  v 
we.     You  will  never  do  such  a  wicked  thing  again,  dear  / 
Robin,  will  you  ?  " 

Robert  answered  only  by  convulsive  sobs,  and  Ella,  too, 
sobbed  for  a  few  moments  in  company  ;  then,  suddenly  break 
ing  away  from  him,  she  hurried  up  the  stairs.  Along  the 
hall  she  went,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  feet  could  carry  her, 
and  past  the  room  in  which  she  had  been  so  happy  while  wil 
ling  hands  decorated  her  pretty  person ;  but  when  she  reached 
her  father's  door,  she  paused  in  dread.  She  could  hear  his 
heavy,  monotonous  tramp  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  ;  and,  remembering  his  almost  repulsive  sternness,  she 
dreaded  meeting  him.  "  If  I  had  only  known  it  before," 
thought  Ella,  "  all  might  have  been  avoided  ;  but  now  it  is 
almost  too  much  to  ask."  A  fresh  burst  of  tears  had  no  ten 
dency  to  calm  her ;  and  she  could  scarce  support  her  trembling 
frame,  when,  repeating  to  herself,  "  he  must  be  saved  ! "  she 
gathered  courage  to  open  the  door.  The  old  man  paused  in 
his  promenade,  and  fixed  his  troubled  eye  sternly  on  the  in 
truder,  while  Ella  rushed  forward,  and,  twining  her  arms 
about  him,  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  wretched  ! "  she  exclaimed,  all  her  courage 
forsaking  her  on  the  instant ;  and  then  she  sobbed,  as  Mr. 
Lane  had  never  supposed  his  daughter  could.  But  he  did 
not  attempt  to  quiet  her ;  he  only  drew  her  closer  to  him,  as 
though  he  would  thus  have  shielded  her  from  the  wretched 
ness  that  was  bursting  her  young  heart.  At  last  Ella  broke 
forth,  "  Come  down  and  see  Robert,  papa;  come  and  save 
him.  They  will  drag  him  away  to  prison  for  forgery,  and 
you  will  be  the  father  of  a  condemned  criminal,  and  I  his 
13 


146  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

sister.  Oh !  do  not  let  him  go  away  from  us  so,  papa  — 
come  down  and  see  him,  and  you  will  pity  him  —  you  can 
not  help  it." 

"  Forgery,  Ella  !  he  has  not  — " 

"  He  has!  and  you  must  save  him,  papa,  for  your  own  sake 
for  all  our  sakes." 

"  Do  you  know  this,  Ella  ?  It  is  not  true  —  it  is  a  misera 
ble  subterfuge  to  wheedle  money  from  his  mother  —  money 
to  squander  among  the  vile  wretches  whom  he  has  preferred 
to  us.  No,  send  him  back  to  his  dissolute  — " 

"  Is  that  the  way  to  make  him  better,  papa  ? "  inquired 
Ella,  raising  her  head  and  fixing  her  sparkling  eye  upon  him 
resoluiely.  "  You  sent  him  back  to  them  before ;  you  shut 
him  away  from  yourself  and  from  mamma  —  you  closed  the 
door  upon  my  only  brother  —  there  was  none  by  to  say,  '  take 
care,  Robin,'  none  to  give  him  a  smile  but  those  who  were 
leading  him  to  ruin  ;  and  no  wonder  that  they  have  made 
him  what  he  is.  Be  careful,  papa.  Robert  has  committed  a 
crime,  a  dreadful  crime  ;  but  it  was  when  you,  who  should 
have  prevented  it,  had  shut  your  heart  against  him,  when  we, 
who  might  have  prevented  it,  were  obliged  to  go  abroad  to 
see  him,  and  then  could  give  him  no  more  than  a  few  stolen 
words.  It  was  not  just  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  so  long,  for 
he  is  my  own  brother,  and  only  one  little  year  older  than  I ; 
but  I  know  all  about  it  now,  and  if  Robert  is  put  in  prison,  I 
had  almost  as  lief  be  in  his  place  as  yours." 

"  Ella  !  Ella  ! " 

"  I  should,  papa.  I  know  that  one  like  you  cannot  do 
wrong  without  feeling  remorse ;  and  when  you  reflect  that  poor 
Robert  might  have  been  saved,  if  you  had  only  had  more 
patience  with  him,  you  will  never  sleep  peacefully  again." 

"  Ella,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man,  cowering  in  spite  of 
himself,  "  what  has  come  over  you  ?  Who  has  set  you  up 
to  talk  in  this  way  to  your  father  ?  I  suppose  I  am  to  be 
answerable  for  this  impertinence,  too." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  you  know  this  is  not  impertinence.  I  have  a 
right  to  say  it,  for  the  love  I  bear  my  only  brother ;  you  know 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  147 

that  my  own  heart  is  all  which  has  set  me  up  to  it,  and  your 
heart,  dear  papa,  is  saying-  the  same  thing.  You  must  forgive 
Robert,  and  you  must  save  him  and  us  the  disgrace  of  an 
exposure." 

"  I  will  avert  the  disgrace  while  I  have  the  power,  Ella,  but 
that  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  at  this  rate.  Do  you 
know  the  amount  of  money  he  asks  ? " 

"  He  asks  none  —  I  ask  for  him  the  sum  that  you  refused 
before." 

"  Ah !  he  has  gained  the  victory,  then.  Well,  tell  him  to 
enjoy  his  villanous  triumph.  Give  him  that,  and  say  to  him, 
that  if  he  has  any  decency  left  he  will  drop  a  name  which 
has  never  been  stained  but  by  him,  and  leave  us  to  the  little 
peace  we  may  glean,  after  he  has  trampled  our  best  feelings 
under  foot." 

"  Thank  you,  papa ;  and  may  I  not  tell  him  you  forgive 
him?"  „ 

"  No  ! " 

"  That  you  pity  him  ? " 

"No!" 

"  May  I  not  say  that  when  he  is  reformed  he  may  come 
back  to  us,  and  be  received  with  open  arms  and  hearts  ? " 

"  Say  nothing  but  what  I  bid  you,  and  go  ! " 

Ella  turned  away  with  a  sigh.  She  had  scarcely  closed 
the  door  when  a  deep,  heavy  groan  broke  upon  her  ear,  and 
she  paused.  Another  and  another  followed,  so  heart-rending, 
so  agonized,  that  she  grew  faint  with  fear.  For  a  moment 
her  hand  trembled  upon  the  latch ;  and  then  she  raised  it, 
and,  gliding  up  to  her  father,  folded  her  arms  about  him,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  his. 

"  Forgive  rne,  dear  papa,  forgive  your  own  Ella  her  first 
unkind  words.  I  was  thinking  only  of  poor  Robert,  and  did 
not  well  know  what  I  said.  I  am  sorry  —  very  sorry  —  can 
not  you  forgive  me,  papa  ? " 

"  Yes,  child,  yes.     Good-night,  darling !  —  there,  go  ! " 

"And  Robert?" 

No  answer. 


148  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

"  You  will  feel  better  if  you  see  him,  papa." 

"Go!  go!" 

Again  Ella  turned  from  the  door  and  hurried  down  the 
stairs.  Still  the  boy  sat  with  his  face  in  his  mother's  lap,  and 
his  arms  twined  about  her  waist.  Both  started  at  sight  of  her 
slight  figure,  dressed,  as  it  was,  for  a  different  scene  from  this. 
The  pale,  anxious  face,  looking  out  from  the  rich  masses  of 
curls  now  disarranged  and  half  drawn  back  behind  her  ear, 
appeared  as  though  long  years  had  passed  over  it  in  that  one 
half  hour.  Poor  Ella  !  it  was  a  fearful  ordeal  for  glad,  buoy 
ant  seventeen. 

"  There  is  the  money,  Robert,"  she  said,  flinging  the  purse 
upon  the  table,  "  and  now  you  must  go  back  with  me  and  say 
to  our  father  that  you  are  sorry  you  have  made  him  mis 
erable." 

"  He  will  turn  me  from  the  door,  Ella." 

"  And  do  you  not  deserve  it  ?  " 

"  Ella  !"  interposed  the  tender  mother. 

"  I  do  ;  that  and  more.  But  perhaps  he  will  think  I  come 
to  mock  him." 

"  Your  manner  and  words  will  tell  him  for  what  you  come. 
You  have  very  nearly  killed  our  poor  father,  Robert.  I  have 
seen  his  grey  hairs  to-night  almost  as  low  as  the  grave  will 
lay  them.  I  have  seen  him  in  such  agony  as  none  of  us  are 
capable  of  enduring.  You  ought  to  go  to  him,  Robert  —  go 
on  your  knees,  and,  whatever  he  says  to  you,  you  will  have 
no  right  to  complain." 

"  Ella,  child  !  Ella !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lane.  "  You  have 
too  much  of  your  father's  spirit  —  that  is,  too  much  for  a 
woman.  Beware  how  you  'break  the  bruised  reed.'  " 

"  Ella  is  right,  mother,"  said  the  boy,  rising.  "  I  will  go 
to  him  —  I  will  tell  him  how  wretched  I  have  made  myself ; 
how  I  wish  that  I  could  take  the  whole  load  of  wretchedness, 
and  relieve  those  I  love.  I  will  promise  him  to  look  out  some 
humble  corner  of  the  earth  and  hide  myself  in  it,  away  from 
his  sight  forever.  Perhaps  he  will  bid  me  earn  his  confidence 
by  years  of  rectitude  — perhaps  he  will,  but,  if  he  does  not, 


SAVE    THE    ERRING.  149 

Ella  is  right  —  whatever  he  says  to  me,  if  he  curse  me,  I 
shall  have  no  right  to  complain." 

"  But  /  will  complain,  Robin  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a 
fresh  burst  of  tears  ;  "  and  wherever  you  go,  I  will  go  with 
you.  Poor,  dear  papa  !  But  he  shall  not  separate  us  — we, 
who  have  sat  upon  his  knee  at  the  same  time  —  his  own  dar 
ling  children !  I  will  never  stay  here  while  you  are  without  a 
home,  Robin." 

The  excited  girl  clasped  both  hands  over  her  brother's  arm 
and  led  the  way  up  stairs ;  while  the  trembling  mother  fol 
lowed,  praying  in  her  heart  that  the  interview  might  termi 
nate  more  favorably  than  her  fears  promised. 

When  they  entered  Mr.  Lane's  room,  the  old  man  sat  in 
his  armed  chair,  leaning  over  a  table,  and  resting  his  fore 
head  upon  his  clasped  hands.  Books  were  scattered  around, 
but  they  had  evidently  not  been  used  that  evening ;  there  was 
a  glass  of  water  standing  beside  him,  and  his  neck-cloth  was 
loosened  as  though  from  faintness.  Had  his  hair  become 
greyer,  and  his  vigorous  frame  bended  within  a  few  days  ? 
It  certainly  seemed  so ;  and  the  heart  of  the  erring  boy  was 
stricken  at  the  sight.  The  sorrow  that  he  had  brought  upon 
his  mother  and  sister  had  been  duly  weighed ;  but  his  stern 
father  had  never  been  reckoned  among  the  sufferers. 

A  loud,  convulsive  sob  burst  from  his  bosom,  and  he  threw 
himself,  without  a  word,  at  the  old  man's  feet.  The  mother 
drew  near  and  joined  her  son  ;  meanwhile,  raising  her  pale 
face  pleadingly  to  her  husband's  ;  and  Ella,  first  kissing  her 
father's  hand,  and  bathing  it  with  a  shower  of  warm  tears, 
placed  it  on  Robert's  head. 

"  You  forgive  him,  papa  —  you  forgive  poor  Robin?  He 
shall  never  act  wickedly  again ;  and  he  is  your  only  son." 

The  old  man  strove  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  in  his 
throat ;  again  he  made  a  strong  effort,  but  emotion  overmas 
tered  him ;  and,  sliding  from  his  chair  into  the  midst  of  the 
group,  he  extended  his  arms,  enclosing  all  of  them,  and,  bow 
ing  his  head  to  the  shoulder  of  his  son,  wept  aloud. 

"  Stay  with  us,  Robert ! "  he  at  last  said  ;  "  we  can  none  of 


150  SAVE    THE    ERRING. 

us  live  without  you.     Stay,  and  make  yourself  worthy  of  the 
love  that  forgives  so  much  ! " 

Men  never  knew  by  what  a  very  hair  had  once  hung  Rob 
ert  Lane's  welfare ;  that  a  mere  breath  alone  had  stood  be 
tween  him  and  ignominy.  Years  after,  when  he  was  an  hon 
ored  and  respected  citizen,  adorning  his  brilliant  talents  by 
virtues  as  rare  as  they  were  ennobling,  no  one  knew  why  he 
should  turn  ever  to  the  erring  with  encouraging  words.  The 
key-stone  of  his  generous  forbearance  was  buried  in  the  hearts 
of  three,  and  they  all  loved  him.  It  was  buried ;  but  yet  a 
white-haired  old  man,  who  watched  his  course  with  an  eagle- 
eye,  and  followed  his  footsteps  dotingly,  receiving  always  the 
most  refined  and  deferential  attention,  might  often  have  been 
heard  muttering  to  himself,  with  proud  and  wondering  affec 
tion,  " '  This  my  son  was  dead  and  is  alive  again ;  he  was  lost 
and  is  found.'" 


151 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

"  I  WOULD  N'T  take  the  liberty  to  say  it,  but  that  I  like 
you,  Doctor,"  said  Squire  Boulter  to  my  Uncle  Stilling,  "  I 
would  n't  say  it,  but  that  I  like  you;  but,  really,  to  see  a  man 
of  your  talent  wasting  life  in  this  way  is  enough  to  make  the 
very  stones  cry  out." 

"  I  am  never  idle,  Squire." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  you  do  such  useless  things,  and  so 
much  for  other  people.  A  man  ought  to  think  a  little  of  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  now  and  then." 

"  I  look  well  to  the  wants  of  my  family,  I  am  sure." 

Squire  Boulter  shook  his  head. 

"  They  never  go  hungry." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not." 

"  Nor  cold." 

"  I  have  n't  charged  you  with  being  an  unfeeling  man, 
Doctor ;  I  know  you  provide  for  your  family  comfortably  — 
comfortably  in  one  sense  —  though  I  think  something  beside 
food  and  clothing  necessary  to  comfort ;  but  remember  the 
'rainy  day'  —  the  *  rainy  day,'  Doctor." 

"  That  will  be  quite  sufficient  when  it  comes.  *  The  mor 
row  will  take  thought  for  the  things  of  itself,'  says  the  Scrip 
ture  ;  and  I  do  not  wish  to  hasten,  by  premature  care,  the  evil 
day." 

"  Ah,  but  Doctor,  that  is  the  sluggard's  creed." 

"  The  text  I  have  given  you  ?  " 

"  Your  application  of  it.  Just  use  a  little  common  sense, 
sharpened  by  your  own  observation.  Supposing  you  should 
be  taken  dangerously  ill  —  say  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  have  plenty  of  medicine." 

*'•  And  be  for  six  months  helpless  ?' 

"  Mistress  Stilling  is  an  admirable  nurse  ;  as  I  believe  you 
have  had  occasion  to  know." 


152  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  What  then 
would  support  your  family  ?  " 

"  I  have  two  boys,  Squire,  sturdy,  industrious  fellows,  with 
strong  hands  and  strong  hearts ;  and,  under  God,  these  are  my 
dependence,  if  he  should  send  upon  me  the  calamity  you 
mention." 

"  Humph  !  wild  Harry  and  little  Will !  They  're  hand 
some,  gay-hearted  lads,  truly,  Doctor ;  but  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  putting  your  Sue,  pretty  dove,  down  at  work,  as  little 
Willy,  with  his  white  face  and  long  curls ;  and  as  for  Hal,  he 
would  make  the  very  hay-cocks  turn  somersets.  Why,  you 
have  no  idea,  Doctor,  of  the  crazy  head  that  boy  carries 
about  with  him." 

"  I  never  held  a  rod  of  iron  over  the  lads,  to  be  sure ;  and 
they  might  possibly  be  the  better,  now  and  then,  for  a  little 
more  restraint ;  but  I  believe  there  are  few  thoughts  enter 
their  young  heads  that  I  don't  know  all  about.  Harry  may 
have  some  boisterous  ways,  but  his  heart  is  as  soft  as  little 
Susy's,  and — well,  well;  it  don't  become  me  to  boast  of  my 
children.  They  are  what  they  are,  and  have  their  faults,  of 
course  ;  though,  I  must  say,  I  think  I  have  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  them." 

"  They  are  fine  boys,  truly ;  and  it  is  a  great  pity  that  they 
should  be  brought  up  in  ignorance." 

"  Ignorance  !  "  My  Uncle  Stilling  opened  his  large  blue 
eyes  in  perfect  amazement.  "  My  children  are  considered 
pretty  intelligent,  I  believe,  Squire." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly;  but  how  are  they  to  be  edu 
cated  ? " 

"  By  means  of  study,  and  observation,  and  practice.  They 
are  in  a  pretty  good  course  of  training  now." 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  give  them  a  collegiate  education, 
Doctor  ? " 

'  Probably  I  shall." 

"  But  that  will  cost  money ;  and  you  acknowledge  that  you 
do  not  lay  by  a  penny." 

"  The  morrow  will  take  thought  for  the  things  of  itself," 
repeated  my  Uncle  Stilling. 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  153 

"  Stark  mad,  Doctor !  stark  mad  !  "  exclaimed  Squire  Boul 
ter,  impatiently.  "  Do  you  expect  a  shower  of  gold  to  rain 
down  from  heaven,  for  your  own  especial  use,  just  at  the 
moment  you  want  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  ever  to  want  it,  Squire." 

"  How  is  Harry  to  get  through  college  ?  " 

"  I  need  n't  think  of  that  these  three  years  yet." 

"  Incorrigible ! "  breathed  Squire  Boulter,  between  his 
closed  lips,  leaning  at  the  same  time  against  the  wall,  as  in 
deep  vexation.  There  was  no  kind  of  use,  however,  in  get 
ting  vexed  with  my  Uncle  Stilling,  and  he  soon  returned  to 
the  attack.  "  Look'ee,  Doctor,  there  's  my  wheat-field.  Sup 
posing  I  had  said,  last  spring,  '  the  morrow  will  take  thought 
for  the  things  of  itself,'  and  so  refused  to  prepare  the  ground 
or  sow  the  seed,  where  now  would  have  been  my  flourishing 
crop?" 

The  Squire  thought  this  was  a  poser,  and  he  rubbed  his 
hands  together,  and  looked  about  him  with  an  air  of  the  most 
triumphant  satisfaction.  My  Uncle  Stilling  only  smiled. 

"  Eh  !  what  d'ye  say  to  that,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  would  n't  have  deserved  a  crop.  It  was  the 
work  of  that  day — last  spring's  duty  —  to  sow  the  seed.  If 
you  had  put  it  over  to  another  day,  you  would  have  *  loaded 
the  morrow  with  a  burden  not  its  own ; '  and  if  you  had  done 
to-morrow's  work,  and  reaped  your  first  blades,  or  left  your 
plough  to  whet  the  sickle,  you  would  have  been  as  mad  as 
you  have  been  trying  to  render  me." 

"  Your  comparison  is  not  a  fair  one,  Doctor;  it  would  n't 
bear  —  " 

"  Granted  !  My  comparison  is  just  abput  as  clumsy  as  your 
own ;  and  neither  of  them  would  do  much  towards  helping 
us  to  truth.  We  are  not  the  men  to  flourish  rhetoric,  and 
shall  do  best  if  we  confine  ourselves  to  sober  facts." 

"To  facts,  then,  Doctor!  If  you  persist  in  not  carrying 
out  the  advantageous  plan  I  have  suggested  — " 

"  Whew  ! " 

"  It  would  be  advantageous ! " 


154  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

"To  poor  Miller?" 
"To  you." 

"  Well,  he  wants  the  farm,  and  I  don't." 

"  You  might  get  a  tenant ;  and  the  profits,  without  any 
trouble  to  yourself,  would  take  Harry  through  college." 

"  And  Miller  ?  " 

"  He  must  look  out  for  himself.  Every  man  for  himself, 
arid  success  to  the  sharpest." 

"  Success  to  the  truest  and  the  neediest,  say  !."% 

"  Well,  with  your  two  boys,  I  don't  see  but  you  need  the 
farm  about  as  much  as  Miller ;  and  though,  to  be  sure,  you 
don't  like  to  be  praised,  I  wonder  where  's  the  neighbor  who 
would  speak  his  name  in  the  same  day  with  yours,  for  good 
ness." 

"I  should  be  a  villain,  though,  to  deprive  him  of  his 
rights." 

"  Well,  that  depends  upon  the  way  you  view  the  matter." 

"  There  is  but  one  way  I  should  care  to  view  it — a  straight 
forward,  honest  way." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  would  recommend  anything  dis 
honest,  Doctor  ?" 

"  Um  !  there  are  different  notions  about  things." 

"  And  your  notions,  let  me  tell  you,  are  not  business 
"notions,  at  all." 

"  But  they  would  lead  me  to  do  as  I  would  be  done  by." 

"  Now,  in  this  case,  your  squeamishness  really  leads  you 
to  do  a  wrong  to  your  children.  Miller's  farm  is  in  fact  your 
own  property.  You  have  the  law  on  your  side,  and  if  you 
should  carry  your  account  into  any  court  of  justice  —  " 

"  Then  I  will  go  home  and  burn  my  accounts.  God  forbid 
that  I  should  keep  anything  under  my  roof  possessing  the 
power  to  deprive  an  unfortunate  man  of  his  just  rights." 

"  There  are  but  few  men  like  you,  Doctor." 

"  There  are  not  many  who  would  act  differently  in  this 
case,  I  trust." 

"  Ah,  well-a-day !  If  the  world  were  all  so  —  but  it  is  n  t 
—  it  is  n't,  my  dear  Doctor;  and  such  men  as  you  fare  hard 
in  it." 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  155 

"  Doctor  Stilling  is  a  fool,"  said  Squire  Boulter  to  nis  gay 
lady  wife,  about  an  hour  afterwards. 

"  I  have  always  thought  so,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

"  Mad  !  stark  mad  !  " 

"  And  yet  you  have  worried  me  to  death  about  calling  on 
his  dowdy  wife,  and  —  " 

"  They  are  strange  people,  I  acknowledge  it;  and  yet  I 
can't  help  liking  them.  If  he  would  exercise  a  little  common 
sense ! " 

"  If  there  is  a  man  on  earth  whom  I  perfectly  detest,  Mag 
gy,  it  is  Squire  Boulter,"  said  my  Uncle  Stilling,  settling 
himself  comfortably  in  his  leather-cushioned  chair,  with  a 
volume  of  Seneca  in  his  hand,  and  a  pipe  between  his  lips. 

"  Detest!  Why,  I  thought  that  you  and  the  Squire  were 
great  friends.  You  always  stand  up  for  him,  I  am  sure, 
when  I  just  happen  to  mention  any  of  his  faults." 

"Ay,  Maggy;  the  Squire  is  a  good  neighbor  —  a  very 
good  neighbor  —  I  will  say  that  for  him,  any  day;  and  a 
kind  man,  too,  he  is  —  sometimes;  but  his  knavish  spirit  I  do 
detest." 

"  Then  you  do  think  he  is  knavish,"  said  my  aunt,  her 
bright  little  black  eyes  twinkling  with  a  rather  naughty  kind 
of  satisfaction.  "When  I  said  it,  the  day  Mrs.  Boulter  flour 
ished  her  elegant  new  cashmere,  you  thought  I  went  quite 
too  far,  and  laid  it  all  to  envy." 

"  Ah,  Maggy,  dear !  and  did  n't  I  name  the  cause  aright  ? 
But  I  will  give  thee  a  better  one  now.  If  a  sight  of  Madam 
Boulter's  finery  could  stir  thee  up  to  say  severe  things  of  her 
husband,  what  wouldst  thou  think,  Maggy,  of  an  attempt  to 
make  me  just  such  another  unprincipled  villain  ?  " 

My  aunt  seemed  much  less  shocked  at  the  mention  of  the 
diabolical  scheme  than  her  good  lord  had  anticipated ;  her 
only  reply  being,  "  Pretty  hard  names  for  a  neighbor  to  make 
use  of,  Walter  Stilling." 

"  Ay,  they  are  hard  names,  Maggy ;  and  really  I  must 
learn  to  think  more  before  I  speak  ;  but  still  I  am  not  sure 


156  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

that  they  are  undeserved.  We  all  have  our  faults  though, 
and — well — yes — I  am  glad  you  checked  me,  Maggy. 
The  Squire  may  be  no  worse  than  the  rest  of  us,  after  all." 

"  He  is  a  very  grasping  man,  though." 

"  Very." 

"  What  does  he  want  you  to  do  ?  " 

"  Collect  all  that  my  patients  owe  me." 

"  A  very  sensible  thing,"  remarked  my  Aunt  Stilling.' 

"  Well,  there  are  the  Shepards — " 

"  Oh,  the  Shepards  are  poor  —  they  can't  pay." 

"  I  might  take  the  cow." 

"  The  cow  !  the  cow !  How  came  such  a  villanous  idea 
as  that  to  enter  your  head,  Walter  Stilling  ?" 

"  Squire  Boulter  put  it  there." 

"  Oh !  ah  —  yes,  I  dare  say;  that  is  the  way  his  wife  flour 
ishes  in  so  much  finery,  by  distressing  the  poor.  Thank 
Heaven,  somebody  that  I  could  name,  has  n't  her  conscience 
to  keep  her  awake  o'  nights." 

"  Then  I  hope  somebody  that  I  could  name,  finds  a  com 
fortable  woollen  shawl  a  very  comely  thing,  dear  Maggy." 

"  There  are  more  people  than  the  Shepards  who  owe  you," 
said  my  Aunt  Stilling,  emphatically. 

"  Yes,  little  Amelia  Strong." 

"  Pooh,  Doctor  !  you  are  only  making  fun  now.  Squire 
Boulter  himself  would  n't  be  mean  enough  to  take  a  friend 
less  school-mistress'  wages  away  from  her,  because,  poor 
thing,  she  chanced  to  fall  sick." 

"  She  managed  to  swallow  an  immense  quantity  of  my 
costliest  kind  of  medicine." 

"  Pooh ! " 

"  And  we  had  to  get  an  extra  help  on  her  account." 

"  Oh,  Betsey  Loud  needed  the  wages,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find  work  for  her." 

"Then  you  fell  sick  watching  over  her,  and  had  that  long 
severe  fever." 

"  I  might  have  had  it  any  way.  But  I  hope  you  don't 
expect,  Doctor,  that  poor  Amelia  Strong's  money  can  pay  for 
my  sickness." 


MY   UNCLE    STILLING.  157 

"  Well,  then,  there  are  the  Lambs." 

"  Oh,  darling  little  Effie  died  ;  all  your  medicine  could  n't 
save  her,  and  they  are  broken-hearted  about  it." 

"  They  are  well  able  to  pay." 

"  Yes,  but  somehow  folks  never  think  of  paying  you.  I 
do  wonder  some  at  the  Lambs,  though.  I  should  suppose 
they  would  say  something  about  it  —  you  were  with  them  so 
night  and  day." 

"  I  might  send  in  my  bill." 

"  I  would  n't  do  it,  Doctor ;  no,  no,  better  lose  it  a  dozen 
times  over.  The  poor  child  is  dead,  and  never  will  cost 
money  or  trouble  more.  Let  the  Lambs  pay,  if  they  choose ; 
but  I  never  would  ask  them  —  never." 

"  Well,  there  are  the  Derbyshires." 

"  Ah,  they  have  a  hard  enough  task  to  get  along,  without 
our  making  it  worse." 

"  And  the  Jilsons." 

"  A  family  of  poor  helpless  women,  all  the  time  sick.  We 
should  be  kind  to  the  '  widows  and  fatherless,'  Walter." 

"  Then  there  are  the  Millers ;  I  have  heavy  demands  on 
them.  I  bought  a  couple  of  notes,  to  prevent  some  hard 
hearted  people  from  distressing  them,  when  they  were  all 
down  with  the  epidemic ;  and  these,  with  my  own  bills,  aided 
by  a  little  politic  manceuvring,  give  me  such  an  advantage, 
that  I  might  possess  myself  of  a  deed  of  their  little  farm, 
without  difficulty." 

"  Ah,  but  you  never  had  a  thought  of  doing  it,  I  am  sure, 
Walter ;  and  Kitty  in  a  consumption,  and  Allan  such  a  crip 
ple  ?  No,  no  ;  you  never  would  touch  the  farm  of  the  Millers, 
not  you." 

"  Squire  Boulter  thinks  I  am  a  fool  for  not  doing  it." 

"  Squire  Boulter  is  a  scoundrel,  then." 

"  Who  uses  hard  names  now,  Maggy  ?" 

"  He  is  a  scoundrel ;  and  his  ill-gotten  wealth  will  come  to 
no  good,  I  am  sure.  I  would  walk  the  streets  barefoot,  before 
I  would  flaunt  out  as  Mrs.  Boulter  does." 

"  And  your  bare  feet  would  look  quite  as  well  as  her 
14 


158 


UNCLE    STILLING. 


French  kid  slippers  on  this  muddy  morning,"  said  my  Uncle 
Stilling,  throwing  a  glance  through  the  window,  as  the  veri 
table  lady  was  passing. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  there  she  goes  !     See  how  she  minces  and  —  " 

"  Ah,  Maggy,  Maggy  !  think  of  that  matter  of  a  conscience 
thou  hast  mentioned.  And  after  thou  hast  proved  thyself  the 
happier  woman  of  the  two,  think  how  wicked  it  is  to  rail 
against  the  unfortunate." 

"  But  her  airs  are  provoking  —  as  though  her  finery  and 
grand  house  should  set  her  up  above  her  neighbors  !  " 

"  Do  her  airs  make  her  more  agreeable  to  her  friends  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  To  anybody  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  " 

"  Then  thou  shouldst  pity  her,  my  good  Maggy  ;  for  she 
labors  very  hard  for  nought." 

"  She  has  more  enemies  than  any  woman  I  know." 

"  Ah,  then  she  is  doubly  unfortunate  —  enemies  without 
and  enemies  within.  Poor  Mistress  Boulter  !  " 

"  You  would  wish  her  great  fiery  eye  anywhere  but  on 
you,  if  she  should  hear  you  say,  *  Poor  Mrs.  Boulter  !  '  It 
would  be  full  enough  of  wrath  to  burn  your  eyelashes." 

"  Then  she  shall  not  hear  me  say  it  ;  but  I  will  pity  her, 
notwithstanding.  Go  we  back  to  my  bills,  Maggy.  What 
say  you  to  the  Remmingtons  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !  you  are  fooling,  Doctor  " 

"  And  the  Bells  ?  " 

"  Our  own  cousins." 

"  Second  cousins." 

"  Well,  we  will  go  to  them  when  we  have  cooked  our  last 
potato." 

"  Bravo,  Meg  !  you  are  almost  a  philosopher.  I  like  to 
near  you  talk  so  bravely  of  the  last  potato.  But  here  is  one 
more  family  on  my  list  —  the  Wilsons." 

"Throw  your  old  account-book  into  the  fire,  Doctor.  I 
verily  believe  there  is  not  a  family  in  all  Cedarville  so  able 
to  pay  as  we  are  to  lose  it." 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  159 

"  Right,  right,  my  girl !  and  not  a  family  in  all  the  state, 
in  the  whole  country,  happier  than  we  in  our  plain,  homely 
independence.  Why,  we  always  have  enough ;  our  house 
is  better  than  a  palace,  since  our  doors  are  strong  enough  to 
shut  contentment  in  ;  and  then  our  brave  beautiful  boys  — 
who  so  rich  as  we,  Maggy  ? " 

The  sparkling  eyes  of  my  Aunt  Stilling  became  strangely 
soft  and  dewy  ;  and  there  was  a  grateful  expression  on  her 
placid  face,  which  convinced  her  husband  that  the  demon  of 
envy  was  expelled,  at  least  for  a  season. 

I  think  a  jury  of  twelve  honest,  world-wise  men,  selected 
from  any  rank  or  class  in  the  land,  would  have  coincided  with 
the  opinion  of  Squire  Boulter,  that  my  Uncle  Stilling  was  a 
great  spendthrift  of  that  inner  wealth  called  talent.  He  was 
a  wise  man,  and  ingenious  in  many  things,  and  deeply  versed 
both  in  books  and  men ;  yet  he  never  had  made  himself  rich 
in  this  world's  goods,  and  had  now  no  higher  honors  than  the 
hearts  of  all  the  people  about  Cedarville.  My  Uncle  Stilling 
loved  well  enough  the  pleasant  things  that  brighten  men's 
pathways ;  but  he  loved  honor  and  truth  and  kindness  and 
goodness  better.  His  heart  warmed  toward  every  human 
being ;  every  man  was  his  brother.  The  poor,  a  young 
brother  whom  he  was  bound  to  watch  over,  soothe,  aid  and 
protect.  But  my  Uncle  Stilling  did  not  confine  his  kindness 
to  any  single  class.  The  poor  and  unfortunate  were  more 
peculiarly  his  friends  —  these  called  forth  all  the  deep-seated 
tenderness  of  his  nature ;  but  the  rich,  too,  the  gay  and  glad 
some,  had  their  share  of  the  gentle,  fresh-hearted  old  man's 
sympathy.  The  young  were  his  companions  ;  and  not  a  child 
in  all  the  country  round  but  sprang  to  his  arms  as  to  those  of 
a  beloved  parent. 

My  Uncle  Stilling  was  not  indolent,  and  yet  he  was  usu 
ally  considered  a  great  time-waster.  No  matter  how  urgent 
his  business  or  how  great  a  matter  was  at  stake  if  it  con 
cerned  himself  only,  the  sick  claimed  always  his  most  assid 
uous  attention.  If  his  hand  could  bo8t  administer  the  cool- 


160  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

ing  draught,  this  was  the  nearest,  the  immediate  duty ;  if  his 
kind  voice  had  a  soothing  or  cheering  power,  it  belonged  to 
his  patients  as  much  as  his  medicine  did ;  and  the  opposite 
scale,  with  the  loss  or  gain  of  a  few  dollars  thrown  into  it, 
kicked  the  beam.  It  would  have  done  so  with  the  estate  of  a 
millionaire.  In  truth,  though  all  loved  the  good  Doctor,  and 
were  scarce  willing  to  believe  he  had  a  fault,  there  were  many 
who  used  to  say  with  Squire  Boulter,  that  it  was  a  great  pity 
he  should  know  so  little  of  the  worth  of  money.  Sometimes 
my  aunt  thought  it  a  pity,  too ;  for,  though  she  shared  deeply 
in  his  kindness  of  heart,  she  had  but  a  small  portion  of  his 
philosophical  indifference  to  the  fruits  of  an  indulgence  in  it. 
The  fine  dress  and  fine  furniture  of  her  neighbors  dazzled  her 
benevolent  eyes  ;  and  she  could  scarce  see  why  she  must  deny 
herself  of  luxuries  which,  according  to  universal  consent,  were 
within  her  reach.  So  my  aunt  would  think  the  matter  over, 
(a  very  dangerous  practice,  by  the  way,  when  the  thinking  is 
all  on  one  side  of  the  question,)  and,  as  she  thought,  grow 
dignified,  then  stern,  then  awfully  severe ;  and,  fully  clad  in 
such  dark  mental  clouds,  step  into  the  presence  of  her  good 
easy  spouse  to  pour  the  concentrated  storm  on  his  devoted 
head.  But  my  aunt  was  really  a  charitable  personage  ;  and, 
though  she  wanted  to  "have  her  pie  and  eat  it"  both  at  once, 
though  she  wanted  to  "buy  the  hobby-horse  and  keep  the 
money,"  she  was  always  duly  horrified  at  the  idea  of  indulg 
ing  her  vanity  at  the  expense  of  her  benevolence.  And  very 
well  did  my  Uncle  Stilling  know  the  love-moulded  key  which 
unlocked  her  sympathetic  heart.  When  she  began  with  a 
biting  word,  (known  to  be  caustic  only  by  the  emphatically 
dignified  " Walter  Stilling")  she  usually  ended  with  a  tear 
of  sympathy  for  some  sufferer,  or  a  glow  of  gratitude  on  ac 
count  of  her  own  blessings. 

My  uncle  had  yet  other  ways  of  wasting  his  time  than  over 
his  patients.  He  was  a  great  naturalist ;  not  a  shell  or  pebble 
escaped  his  notice ;  not  a  plant  could  spring  up  in  the  field 
but  my  Uncle  Stilling's  eye  watched  it  with  a  parental  inter 
est.  The  different  bird-notes  which  made  the  woodland  glad 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  161 

were  all  as  familiar  to  him  as  the  voices  of  his  children ;  he 
knew  the  little  green  hlade  which  peeped  earliest  from  the 
mould  in  the  spring  time,  and  the  leaves  which  latest  yielded 
to  the  kiss  of  the  ice-lipped  frost-spirit ;  and  he  knew  the  pat 
tern  and  material  of  every  little  nest  which  was  hidden  away 
beneath  the  summer  foliage.  Whole  days  would  he  spend 
(waste,  his  neighbors  said)  wandering  over  field  or  wood 
land  ;  returning  at  dew-fall  with  a  fresh  outlay  of  dew  upon 
his  own  heart,  and  calling  his  little  family  about  him  to  rejoice 
over  the  prize  he  had  discovered.  And  such  a  prize  !  A 
handful  of  weeds  —  a  pocket-handkerchief  of  mosses  —  half- 
a-dozen  petrifactions  —  a  forsaken  bird's  nest  —  all  these  were 
precious  things  in  the  eyes  of  my  Uncle  Stilling.  Roger 
Acton's  wondrous  pot  of  money,  even  when  the  eager  eyes 
of  the  half-crazed  expectant  first  lighted  on  it,  was  incapable 
of  producing  such  a  joyous  heart-bound  as  the  discovery  of  a 
new  floral  treasure  communicated  to  my  good  uncle.  It  was 
an  electricity  passing  up  through  the  mysteriously  linked 
chain  of  God's  works,  from  the  beautiful  in  matter  to  the 
beautiful  in  spirit.  My  uncle's  nature  was  like  the  woodland 
flower,  with  the  dew  and  perfume  as  fresh  upon  it  as  when 
its  unfolding  petals  first  looked  out  upon  the  sunlight.  And 
when  the  pure  blooming  counterpart  was  found,  his  feet 
moved  almost  as  blithely  as  those  of  wild  Harry  himself; 
and  Harry,  and  little  Will,  and  pretty  Susy,  soon  caught  the 
infection;  knowing  first  by  my  uncle's  eyes,  and  afterwards 
by  putting  his  own  estimate  on  his  treasures,,  when  to  be  glad. 
As  for  my  Aunt  Stilling,  she  could  not  exactly  see  the  use  of 
bringing  all  these  things  in  to  litter  up  the  house,  but  she  did 
not  really  like  to  say  as  much ;  for,  kind,  gentle  soul  that  she 
was,  it  did  her  heart  good  to  see  her  husband  and  children 
happy.  Not  that  it  was  a  rare  sight  by  any  means ;  but  my 
Aunt  Stilling  knew,  by  peeping  into  other  houses  what  a 
comfortless  guest  she  might  introduce  at  her  fire-side. 

Still  another  way  of  wasting  time  had  my  Uncle  Stilling. 
He  knew  very  well  that  he  was  neither  poet  nor  painter ;  but 
here  was  scarce  a  pretty  eye  in  the  country  round   lhat  he 
14* 


162  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

had  not  written  verses  to,  and  scarce  a  house  but  could  show 
some  specimen  of  his  handiwork  with  the  pencil.  His  verses 
praised  the  bright  eye  and  the  handsome  lip  right  gallantly ; 
but  they  always  reminded  the  fair  possessor  of  those  charms 
of  more  enduring  and  still  lovelier  beauties.  His  verses  were 
pure  and  vigorous,  rich  with  good  sense,  though  sometimes 
rather  deficient  in  poetic  fancies ;  and  each  bore  to  the  partic 
ular  individual  which  had  called  out  the  effusion  an  especial 
and  pointed  heart-lesson.  Had  any  of  his  young  friends  been 
guilty  of  a  wrong,  my  Uncle  Stilling  administered  his  gentle 
reproof  in  rhyme;  and  thus  gilded  over,  the  bitter  pill,  which 
might  otherwise  have  been  cast  away,  became  quite  palatable. 
His  paintings  were  usually  holyday  presents.  When  Christ 
mas  came  he  was  the  Santa  Clans  of  at  least  five  square 
miles ;  and  on  New  Year's  day  his  capacious  and  well 
crammed  saddle-bags  were  quite  innocent  of  physic.  More 
over,  he  knew  the  precise  age  of  every  young  person  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  he  never  neglected  to  honor  in  his  simple 
way  the  anniversary  of  a  birth-day.  His  pictures  were  like 
his  verses  —  illustrations  of  some  every-day  truth  which 
young  people  are  apt  to  forget ;  and  always  carefully  adapted 
to  the  taste  and  character  of  those  to  whom  they  were  pre 
sented.  My  uncle  knew  that  there  was  now  and  then  a  per 
son  of  his  parish  (Parson  Adams  was  not  half  as  much  the 
shepherd  of  his  flock  as  was  the  pious,  simple-souled  Doctor) 
who  did  not  set  a  very  high  value  on  either  his  verses  or  his 
pictures,  and  for  these  he  had  other  and  more  acceptable  gifts. 
Bouquets  of  flowers,  with  a  slip  of  paper  around  each,  telling 
the  language  ;  books  carefully  marked  by  his  pencil ;  and,  on 
great  occasions,  glass  cases  of  birds,  stuffed  and  arranged  by 
his  own  fingers.  There  is  even  now  a  singularly  pure  moral 
atmosphere  pervading  Cedarville ;  and  it  is  not  difficult  to 
believe  that  the  heart-warm  breath  of  my  Uncle  Stilling  still 
animates  the  natures  which  were  early  moulded  by  his  sim 
ple,  plain,  but  high-minded  precepts,  aided  by  acts  quite  as 
guileless  and  unselfish.  Blessings  on  the  single-hearted  and 
the  good  !  A  high  intellect  is  a  gift  from  God  —  a  pure  heart 
is  his  dwelling  place. 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  163 

Twenty  years  had  passed,  not  without  leaving  some  traces ; 
for  however  noiseless  the  tread  of  the  grey-beard,  his  foot 
steps  are  always  discernible  on  our  frail  sands.  He  had, 
however,  trodden  very  lightly  over  Cedarville,  and  had  been 
particularly  gentle  with  my  Uncle  Stilling.  The  old  man 
still  lived  in  his  little  white  cottage  with  the  green  blinds  and 
latticed  portico ;  and  his  good  dame,  as  good  and  benevolent 
and  careful  of  his  comfort  as  ever,  was  still  by  his  side.  The 
grape-vine  porch  was  rather  more  luxuriantly  covered  with 
the  dark,  rich  foliage,  but  otherwise  it  looked  the  same  as 
twenty  years  before.  The  white  rose-bushes  climbed  to  the 
eaves  as  they  had  done  in  former  times ;  the  lilacs  bordered 
the  path  from  the  gate  to  the  door-way ;  and  the  holly-hocks 
and  purple  mallows  bloomed  in  neat  rows  along  the  garden 
patch.  The  squash-vines  still  crept  about  among  the  hills  of 
sweet  corn ;  the  peas  and  beans  budded  and  blossomed  and 
yielded  up  their  produce  down  by  the  meadow  fence ;  the 
melon-patch  had  not  moved  an  inch  from  its  old  place  in  the 
corner ;  and  the  long,  narrow  beds  of  beets,  carrots,  parsnips 
and  onions,  still  exhibited  their  even,  carefully  weeded  rows, 
in  the  foreground.  Directly  beneath  my  Aunt  Stirling's  win 
dow  were  the  self-same  treasures  that  had  occupied  that  dis 
tinguished  position  twenty  years  previous  —  the  sage,  thyme, 
rue,  camomile,  worm- wood,  celery,  caraway,  and  various  other 
trifles,  cultivated  by  her  own  hand.  The  currant-bushes,  too, 
were  the  same ;  and  if  those  two  cherry-trees  adorning  the 
grass-plot,  where  my  aunt  still  spread  her  linen  to  bleach, 
were  not  the  identical  ones  to  which  wild  Harry  owed  so 
many  tumbles  in  his  babyhood,  they  were  strangely  like  them. 
But  wild  Harry  was  now  a  man,  with  a  frolicsome  counter 
part  of  himself  to  tumble  from  cherry-trees  and  keep  grand- 
mama  tremulous  with  alarms,  which  had  gathered  peculiar 
strength  with  the  dignity  of  a  new  title.  My  Uncle  Stilling 
was  no  richer  than  ever;  but  he  was  just  as  comfortable,  and 
just  as  contented,  and  just  as  happy.  His  wishes  with  regard 
to  his  children  were  all  gratified,  and  particularly  so  in  the 
case  of  his  darling  Willy  ;  who,  according  to  universal  con- 


164  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

sent,  was  a  "bright  aud  shining  light"  in  Cedarville.  The 
young  clergyman  had  taken  the  place  of  Parson  Adams,  on 
his  demise  ;  and  his  flock  lost  nothing  by  having  the  virtues 
of  my  Uncle  Stilling  —  gentleness,  simplicity,  contentment, 
benevolence,  trust  and  love  —  engrafted  on  the  piety  which 
looks  to  be  of  doubtful  origin  when  these  are  kept  in  the 
background.  If  pride  be  a  sin,  then  was  my  Uncle  Stilling 
more  sinful  with  his  white  hairs  on  than  he  had  been  in  alJ 
his  life  before.  He  was  proud,  indeed,  of  his  noble,  high- 
ininded,  half-sainted  boy.  Did  any  one  speak  kindly  of  him 
—  and  that  was  an  every-day  thing  —  the  old  man's  still 
sunny  eyes  began  to  draw  up  moisture  from  the  heart ;  and 
words  of  warm  praise  were  always  rewarded  by  a  gush  of 
grateful  tears.  Every  Sabbath,  when  he  walked  down  the 
church  aisle  and  saw  the  faces  of  the  congregation  kindling 
with  love  as  they  gathered  around  the  sacred  desk  to  greet 
their  young  pastor,  his  heart  and  eyes  overflowed  together, 
and  he  was  wont  to  say  in  the  words  of  one  as  guileless  and 
as  enthusiastic  as  himself,  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace."  My  Uncle  Stilling  was  proud  of  his  eldest 
son,  too ;  but  it  was  a  different  kind  of  pride.  Harry  had 
gone  abroad  from  him  and  had  made  separate  interests,  (al 
though  the  love-link  between  them  was  still  stronger  than  in 
most  hearts,)  and  won  much  applause  among  men.  The  old 
man  was  not  indifferent  to  these  honors,  for  he  knew  that  they 
were  the  reward  of  his  son's  virtues ;  but  he  valued  the  vir 
tues  themselves  much  higher.  The  sight  of  Harry  and  his 
young  wife  and  their  beautiful  children,  (a  snow-drop  and  an 
oak  in  miniature,)  made  my  uncle's  heart  swell  with  proud 
softness  ;  but  it  was  on  Willy  that  the  more  than  womanly 
tenderness  of  his  strangely  gifted  nature  was  lavished  most 
unsparingly.  Nor  must  sweet  Susy  be  forgotten,  for  she  was 
my  Aunt  Stilling's  "  staff  and  comfort."  Susy  could  not,  of 
course,  be  spared  from  the  village,  though  the  little  white  cot 
tage  was  scarce  grand  enough  for  the  wife  of  its  greatest  law 
yer.  So  there  was  a  handsome  house  built  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  garden ;  and  when  young  Mrs.  Eastman  did  not  dine 


MY   UNCLE    STILLING.  165 

with  mamma  Stilling,  why,  dear  mamma  must  make  one, 
and  the  good  Doctor  another,  and  darling  brother  Willy 
another,  at  the  board  of  the  lawyer's  lady.  Few  men  are  so 
blessed  in  age  as  my  Uncle  Stilling,  for  very  few  have  so 
spent  their  prime.  He  was  now  reaping  the  harvest  that  he 
had  sown  in  other  days,  and  it  was  truly  a  golden  one  to  his 
heart. 

Directly  opposite  the  little  white  cottage  was  a  large,  showy 
mansion,  erected  by  Squire  Boulter  when  his  coffers  were 
fullest.  The  fine  garden  was  now  all  overrun  with  weeds, 
and  the  pleasant  summer-house  had  quite  gone  to  decay. 
Only  a  few  flowers  of  the  most  enduring  kind  remained,  and 
they  were  fast  yielding  to  the  rank  weeds.  The  choice  fruit 
trees  stood  dead  and  blackened,  their  leafless  limbs  all  covered 
with  mould  ;  and  the  shrubbery  was  broken  down  and  ne 
glected.  A  pitiful  sight  was  that  once  handsome  garden,  and 
no  less  pitiful  the  neglected  house.  The  wide  gravel-walk 
leading  to  it  had  grown  into  a  narrow  foot-path ;  the  shade- 
trees  were  unpruned,  and  long  dead  vines  clung  to  their 
trunks  and  swung  to  and  fro  in  the  air ;  the  marble  door-stone 
was  broken  and  mossed  over  on  the  outer  edges;  and  the 
shutters  above  hung  in  shattered  remnants,  some  on  a  single 
hinge.  Here,  all  alone,  dwelt  Squire  Boulter.  His  wife  had 
long  since  gone  to  her  final  rest;  and  his  son,  whose  future 
welfare  had  been  the  one  engrossing  thought  of  other  days, 
had  strangely  repaid  his  care.  Edmund  Boulter  had  been 
the  playmate  of  Harry  Stilling,  and  was  then  esteemed  a 
bright,  active  lad,  who  would,  in  all  probability,  take  some 
decided  part  in  the  world,  either  for  good  or  evil.  Every 
indulgence  of  a  certain  character  had  been  shown  him  in  his 
childhood,  but  it  was  not  the  kind  of  indulgence  which  leaves 
a  soft  impress.  Squire  Boulter  had  believed  that  nothing 
could  be  done  without  money ;  and  his  son  adopted  a  still 
more  dangerous  faith  —  no  pleasure  was  worth  enjoying  that 
money  did  not  purchase.  The  effect  of  this  belief  need  not 
now  be  traced  out ;  it  requires  but  a  look  to  the  right  or  left 
to  see  it  all ;  for  Edmund  Boulter's  was  no  untrodden  path, 


166  MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 

He  was  an  only  child ;  and,  of  course,  knew  before  he  had 
counted  a  dozen  summers,  that  he  was  heir  to  wealth  consid 
ered  in  Cedarville  immeasurable.  And  so,  slowly  and  by 
degrees,  as  the  years  went  by,  came  the  old  story  of  ruined 
intellect  and  ruined  heart —  a  godlike  image  desecrated.  By 
the  time  Edmund  Boulter  was  a  man,  more  tears  had  been 
shed  over  him  than  ever  wetted  the  pillow  of  the  dead;  and 
he  had  become  to  the  Squire  a  constant  living  heart-ache. 
And  now  the  old  man  endeavored  to  teach,  by  severity,  les 
sons  which  should  have  been  melted  into  the  pliant  heart 
before  selfishness  had  spread  above  it  the  impenetrable  crust 
that  now  shut  it  firmly  in.  Alternate  sternness  and  lavish 
indulgence  only  increased  the  evil ;  and  finally,  the  unhappy 
father  resolved  to  try  a  desperate  experiment,  and  shake  off 
his  son  entirely  for  the  present. 

"  You  are  a  strong,  able-bodied  man,"  said  Squire  Boulter, 
"  and  you  have  a  good  profession ;  this,"  putting  a  paper  into 
his  hand,  "  is  all  I  shall  give  you.  You  are  henceforth  to 
depend  entirely  on  your  own  resources." 

Edmund  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  his  father  in  earnest, 
so  he  accepted  the  check,  laughingly,  and  launched  out  into 
new  extravagances.  But  he  soon  learned  his  mistake.  Then 
he  pleaded  and  threatened  by  turns ;  but  the  old  man  was 
inexorable. 

"  After  all  that  I  have  done  for  you ! "  he  would  say,  bitterly. 
"  If  I  had  been  the  careless  father  that  Doctor  Stilling  has, 

it  might  better  be  borne  ;  but  now out  of  my  presenqe, 

ingrate ! " 

Edmund  Boulter  went  away,  and  for  years  was  not  heard 
of,  except  perhaps  by  his  father.  What  his  life  was  during 
this  time  may  be  guessed  ;  for  the  old  man's  eye  grew  every 
day  heavier,  and  the  furrows  in  his  cheek  deeper ;  but  he  did 
not  relent. 

Early  one  bright  morning,  just  as  the  first  heaven-messen 
gers  were  giving  their  color  to  the  gems  which  clustered  about 
every  leaf  and  grass-blade,  my  Uncle  Stilling  sat  by  the  win- 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  167 

(low,  carefully  conning  a  book  which  had  been  brought  home 
the  evening  before  by  his  darling  Willy.  As  he  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  page,  they  fell  upon  something  without,  which 
at  once  riveted  his  attention.  He  looked  earnestly  for  a 
while;  pulled  off  his  spectacles,  and  then  looked  again;  took 
another  pair  from  his  pocket,  carefully  wiped  the  glasses ; 
adjusted  them  as  carefully,  and  then  leaned  out  of  the  win 
dow  with  unusual  interest.  Suddenly  his  head  was  drawn 
back. 

"  Maggy  !  Maggy  !  "  My  uncle's  cheek  was  pale,  and  his 
voice  husky.  "  Maggy !  —  quick  !  —  here  ! " 

My  aunt  came  —  an  old,  old  woman,  quite  gray,  a  wrinkle 
on  her  forehead,  the  most  placid  of  smiles  on  her  lip,  her  form 
slightly  bended,  but  with  the  step  of  a  girl. 

"  What  is  that,  Maggy  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"There,  in  — in  — " 

"  I  don't  see." 

"  Bless  your  heart!  in  the  Squire's  yard,  on  —  on  the  big 
horse-chestnut." 

My  aunt  looked  a  moment,  and  a  strange,  alarmed  ex 
pression  came  over  her  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Maggy  ?  " 

"I  — I  don't— know,  Walter." 

The  words  were  gasped  out  rather  than  spoken. 

"Do  you  think  —  there,  don't  be  frightened  —  don't  be 
frightened,  child  —  perhaps  —  perhaps  it 's  nothing.  I  '11  just 
step  over  —  " 

"  No,  no,  Walter !  you're  an  old  man  —  let  Willy  go  — 
such  sights — " 

My  aunt  was  interrupted  by  a  violent  ringing  at  the  door, 
and  a  cry  of  alarm  from  the  street. 

No,  no !  Such  sights  were  not  befitting  eyes  like  thine, 
my  dear,  old,  gentle-hearted  uncle  !  Suspended  by  the  neck 
from  the  horse-chestnut,  dead,  quite  dead,  hung  the  daring, 
dissolute  Edmund  Boulter ;  and  prostrate  beside  his  own 
door-stone,  his  white  hairs  necked  with  the  blood  which  was 


168 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING. 


oozing  from  his  lips  and  nostrils,  lay  the  inanimate  form  of 
the  stricken  father. 

"  He  has  murdered  the  old  man,  and  then  hung  himself," 
was  the  first  exclamation. 

But  this  was  a  hasty  judgment.  Edmund  Boulter  was  not 
guilty  of  parricide  by  violent  means,  whatever  a  nicer  judge 
might  decide  with  regard  to  invisible  weapons. 

A  wondering,  awe-stricken  multitude  followed  the  suicide 
to  his  grave ;  while  my  good  Uncle  Stilling  strove  to  quiet 
the  ravings  of  the  miserable  parent.  The  son  had  returned 
to  the  village  the  evening  before,  and  endeavored  to  gain  ad 
mittance  at  the  door  of  his  father ;  but  he  was  peremptorily 
refused. 

"  I  will  haunt  you  forever,  for  this  !  "  were  the  last  words 
that  Squire  Boulter  heard,  accompanied  by  an  oath  which 
made  him  shudder.  They  had  troubled  his  dreams  in  the 
night-time,  and  once  he  thought  he  heard  them  again.  He 
listened.  There  was  a  noise  as  of  strangulation,  accompanied 
by  a  wild,  horrid  laugh,  that  was  yet  more  a  yell  of  anguish. 
He  threw  up  the  sash,  and  for  a  moment  thought  there  was 
an  unusual  commotion  among  the  leaves  of  the  horse-chestnut. 
Then  all  was  still.  The  moon  looked  down  peacefully,  the 
stars  shone  out  in  sweetness,  and  not  a  footstep  or  a  feathered 
thing  was  astir.  Squire  Boulter  went  back  again  to  his  pil 
low,  but  his  stern  resolution  began  to  melt.  In  the  morning 
he  rose  early,  and  went  out  to  seek  his  son,  resolving  to  try 
once  more  the  effect  of  kindness.  It  was  too  late.  The 
wretched  man  had  seized  recklessly  upon  Eternity,  and  Time 
had  receded  from  him. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  —  no  use,  Doctor,"  said  Squire  Boulter, 
in  one  of  his  lucid  moments,  "  my  son  is  carried  to  a  dishon 
ored  grave,  while  yours  stands  up  in  the  desk  and  points  the 
moral.  Is  that  the  Almighty's  justice  ?  " 

"  God  has  a  clearer  eye  than  we  have,"  was  the  soft  re 
sponse  of  my  uncle. 

"  If  I  had  been  as  neglectful  as  you,  Doctor  —  if  I  had  been 


MY    UNCLE    STILLING.  169 

such  a  father  as  you  have  —  but  I  would  have  bartered  my 
soul  to  Satan,  for  that  boy's  good." 

"  Better  have  bent  the  knee  to  God,  my  poor  neighbor," 
murmured  my  Uncle  Stilling,  softly. 

There  was  a  reproach  in  the  words,  but  not  in  the  tone  or 
manner ;  for  my  uncle's  sympathetic  nature  was  all  melted 
into  tears.  He  was  not  the  avenging  angel  to  wound  even 
by  truth  an  already  bruised  and  bleeding  heart.  Squire 
Boulter  had  walked  blindfold  all  his  life ;  and  the  light  now 
would  have  been  a  "consuming  fire  to  him."  My  Uncle 
Stilling  had  endeavored  to  remove  the  bandage  when  all 
were  happy ;  but  now  his  whole  study  was  to  ease  the  rack 
ing  pain  of  a  woe-laden  heart.  And  he  partially  succeeded 
—  only  partially.  The  wound  was^irjjhirable,  and  the  barbed 
arrow  rankled  and  cankered  in  the  old  man's  bosom,  till 
another  grave  was  opened,  and  the  gentle  young  pastor 
prayed  above  it ;  and  the  sod  lay  upon  the  breast  of  Squire 
Boulter. 

15 


170 


"NICKIE    BEN." 

WE  have  a  lawyer  at  Alderbrook  —  three  of  them,  indeed 
—  but  one  we  have  worth  talking  about,  one  who  has  been 
talked  about  —  one  who  has  been  blown  upon,  if  not  by  "  the 
breath  of  fame,"  by  that  gossiping  approach  to  it  which  is 
fame's  stage-coach  —  one,  in  short,  who  deserves  a  historian. 
Now,  do  not  "  think  you  see  him,"  dear  reader,  before  I  be 
gin  ;  and  so  place  before  your  mind's  eye  a  little,  spare,  cun 
ning,  smooth-tongued  fox  of  an  attorney,  whom  it  will  be  my 
bounden  duty  to  demolish. 

"  A  face  like  a  wedge,  made  to  force  its  way  through  the 
world,  eyes  like  black  beans  a-boiling  in  milk,  and  a  step  like 
a  cat's—" 

Not  a  bit  of  it.     Oh,  no  !  you  do  not  see  our  lawyer. 

Benjamin  Nichols,  or  "Nickie  Ben,"  as  he  has  been  irrev 
erently  re-christened  by  some  wag,  with  the  consent,  of  every 
body,  has  a  voice  —  oh,  such  a  voice  !  the  north  wind  is  an 
infant's  whisper  to  it  —  stands  very  nearly  six  feet  in  his 
stockings,  and  is  of  dimensions  never  scoffed  at.  In  good 
sooth,  that  brawny  arm  might  have  wielded  the  genuine  old 
Scottish  claymore  by  the  side  of  Robert  Bruce,  and  other 
worthies  of  the  times  that  were,  and  never  have  been  ashamed 
of  the  muscles  in  it.  Nickie  Ben,  however,  was  reserved  for 
more  elegant  diversions  than  hewing  off  men's  heads,  and 
slicing  down  their  shoulders  ;  and  he  rewarded  fate  for  her 
nattering  favors  to  himself  by  entering  with  great  zest  into 
the  spirit  which  governs  the  modern  world.  In  place  of  such 
boisterous  cries  as  "A  Bruce  !  A  Bruce  !"  "A  Richard  !  A 
Richard  ! "  or  "  Beau-seant ! "  he  slipped  his  fingers  quietly 
to  the  bottom  of  his  eel-skin  purse,  laid  his  thumb  against  the 
pillars,  and  his  forefinger  against  the  kingly  head  upon  the 


NICKIE    BEN.  171 

sixpences  there;  while  his  eye  twinkled,  and  his  features 
worked  in  a  way  fully  to  prove  his  loyalty  to  that  little  piece 
of  coin,  and  his  determination  to  die,  if  need  be,  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  family. 

Nickie  Ben's  boyhood  was  none  of  the  easiest.  He  never 
laid  his  head  on  a  pillow  of  down,  poor  boy  !  nor  had  a  softer 
covering  than  a  heavy  patch- work  quilt,  stuffed  with  cotton ; 
indeed,  it  used  to  be  shrewdly  suspected  by  some  inquisitive 
neighbors,  that  even  the  quilt  was  sometimes  lacking,  and  that 
young  Nickie  might  have  rolled  up  his  day- wearables  to  rest 
his  head  upon.  However  that  might  be,  the  Widow  Nichols 
managed  to  keep  up  appearances  to  the  level  of  humble  re 
spectability  ;  and,  though  she  and  her  daughter  Betsy  and 
her  son  Ben  might  all  have  breakfasted  on  a  smaller  allow 
ance  than  would  have  served  Squire  Blsdel  for  lunch,  not  an 
intimation  to  that  effect  ever  crossed  the  lips  of  one  of  the 
family.  Nothing  about  them  bespoke  the  meagre  fare,  except 
the  meagre  frame ;  the  preponderance  of  bone  and  sinew 
over  flesh  and  quick  blood.  If  you  would  see  the  really  suf 
fering  poor,  do  not  go  to  the  wretched  hovel  where  famine 
dwells  confessedly,  and  poverty  draws  the  outlines  of  its  own 
gaunt  figure  on  lintel  and  casement ;  but  turn  to  those  who 
are  ashamed  to  say  they  want ;  whose  brows  knit  while  their 
lips  smile ;  who,  wearing  the  pinched  look,  find  their  cares 
increased  by  laboring  always  for  its  concealment.  There  is 
poverty  unmitigated  —  unmitigated  by  the  hope  of  human 
sympathy;  a  thing,  however,  which  galls  oftener  than  it 
soothes. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  Widow  Nichols  belonged  entirely 
to  the  above  mentioned  class  —  indeed,  I  rather  think  that  if 
she  did,  she  maintained  the  character  on  a  particularly  small 
scale ;  she  was  seldom  pinched  in  her  allowance  of  eatables 
more  than  enough  to  give  her  a  good  appetite,  and  never  laid 
claim  to  anything  higher  than  respectable,  industrious  inde 
pendence.  The  good  widow  was  a  genuine  worker;  and,  as 
industrious,  clever  women  usually  have  some  little  foible,  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  be  exempt.  It  was,  accordingly 


172  NICKIE    BEN. 

reported  at  Alderbrook,  that,  during  the  lifetime  of  the  elder 
Benny,  (who,  by  the  way,  was  a  remarkably  "  shiftless  man") 
this  "  crown  to  her  husband  "  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
the  head  of  the  family ;  and,  in  her  love  of  rule,  not  unfre- 
quently  drove  from  the  door  with  such  weapons  as  the  broom 
and  poker,  the  head  which  she  should  have  graced.  But  old 
Benny  was  "  gathered  to  his  fathers,"  and  the  sceptre  remained 
undisputed  in  the  hands  of  the  widow.  And  now,  indeed, 
she  wielded  it  to  good  purpose. 

Betsy  was  older  than  young  Ben,  old  enough,  indeed,  to 
"  do  a  deal  of  work ;"  and  it  was  soon  decided  in  the  mind 
of  the  widow  that  the  daughter  should  sacrifice  herself  to  the 
son's  advancement.  To  be  sure,  Betsy  was  a  girl  after 
the  mother's  own  heart,  industrious  and  pains-taking ;  and 
Ben  was  rather  inclined  to  saunter  in  his  father's  footsteps ; 
but  the  widow  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  bent  twig  might  be 
braced  and  straightened ;  and,  after  all,  it  must  be  owned  that 
a  son  may  be  "  the  making  of  a  family,"  while  the  daughter 
only  holds  the  candle  to  him.  Ben's  education  was  the  thing 
to  be  accomplished;  and  Betsy  and  Betsy's  mother  heeded 
neither  aching  eyes  nor  aching  fingers  while  earning,  stitch  by 
stitch,  the  scanty  pittance  which  was  to  make  the  son  and 
brother  great.  Ben  was  indolent,  but  he  was  grateful-z^y 
and  when  he  thought  of  the  two  busy  needles,  the  scanty 
board  and  hard  bed  at  Alderbrook,  he  would  have  had  more 
than  human  selfishness  to  neglect  his  studies  and  waste  his 
time.  Ben  did  not,  however,  believe  that  gratitude  precluded 
yawning,  and  as  the  difference  between  skimming  over  a  book 
and  diving  into  it  had  never  been  made  quite  clear  to  his 
perceptions,  he  may  be  forgiven  for  preferring  the  first  method, 
which,  I  have  been  told,  is  much  in  vogue  now,  since  accom 
plished  scholars  are  no  longer  the  fashion.  Ben  skimmed 
successfully  at  college ;  and  brought  away  a  degree  and  the 
pre-nomen  of  Nickie.  By  this  time  there  was  one  needle 
less  at  Alberbrook.  Poor  Betsy  had  finished  her  work,  worn 
herself  out  with  labor ;  and  the  widow  was  alone. 

It  is  doubtful  wrhether  Nickie  Ben  would  have  made  much 


NICKIE    BEN.  173 

use  of  his  lore  but  for  the  pushing  that  was  still  kept  up  by 
the  widow ;  but  with  her  own  single  hand  she  put  him  in  the 
way  of  a  profession,  arid  pushed  him  through  into  the  very 
bar.  I  say  she  did  it,  and  I  say  correctly;  for,  although 
Nickie  Ben  was  beginning  to  imitate  her  shrewdness  and 
energy,  he  never  would  have  performed  the  feat  of  his  own 
accord.  Of  Nickie  Ben's  legal  knowledge  I  say  nothing; 
for  what  can  women  know  of  such  things  ?  but  I  have  heard 
that  he  was  not  very  long  in  obtaining  practice.  He  had  a 
peculiar  gift  at  pettifogging,  (a  very  essential  qualification  in 
such  out-o'-the-way  places  as  Alderbrook,)  and  great  profes 
sional  acumen,  for  he  snuffed  a  case  in  every  fresh  breeze  that 
visited  him ;  and  kindly  pointed  out  to  his  neighbors  insults 
and  abuses  which  they  would  never  have  seen  but  by  the  help 
of  his  superior  discernment.  No  quarrel  was  so  small  but 
he  found  room  to  thrust  in  a  finger ;  no  matter  so  contempti 
ble  but  the  salt  of  the  law,  applied  by  Nickie  Ben,  preserved 
and  dignified  it  into  something,  to  stay  on  men's  memories ; 
and  no  coin  was  so  trifling  but  our  lawyer  esteemed  it  worth 
a  full  hour's  bickering.  His  pillow  was  now  as  hard,  and  his 
dinner  as  light  as  in  boyhood ;  but  it  was  no  longer  from 
necessity.  Ben  was  economical.  Some  said  he  was  mean, 
penurious  ;  men  spoke  of  him  with  a  curling  lip,  and  not  a 
single  woman  knew  him.  But  what  was  all  this  to  Nickie 
Ben  ?  He  was  effectually  aroused  from  his  boyish  indolence, 
and  he  was  determined  to  be  rich  —  rich  —  RICH  !  The  word 
had  been  dinned  in  his  ear  by  his  mother  until  he  knew  all 
the  changes  that  could  possibly  be  rung  upon  it ;  and  no  slav 
ery  was  too  abject  to  be  made  a  stepping-stone  to  the  golden 
throne  which  he  saw  in  the  far-off  future.  Not  that  Ben 
Nichols  "  sold  his  soul  to  Mammon;"  he  sacrificed  his  man 
liness  and  independence  to — public  opinion.  You  do  not 
see  how  it  is,  dear  reader.  I  will  show  you. 

Years   went  by,   and  our  lawyer  became  "Auld  Nickie 

Ben;"  though  his  head  had  a  less  weight  of  time  upon  it 

than  his  appearance  indicated.     But  he  was  as  plodding,  as 

careful,  as  penurious  as  ever.     Everybody  said  that  he  was  a 

15* 


174  NICKIE    BEN. 

confirmed  bachelor ;  and  everybody  sneered  at  him  as  a  de 
testable  miser.  Yet  do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  Nickie 
was  a  thin,  cadaverous  man,  with  a  face  the  color  of  his  gold, 
and  shoulders  graced  with  a  consumptive  curve  —  he  was 
anything  but  that.  I  think,  however,  I  have  before  mentioned 
his  physical  capabilities. 

Every  morning  before  the  sun  was  up,  in  summer  and  win 
ter,  rain  and  sunshine,  our  lawyer  might  have  been  seen,  by 
any  early  riser,  out  taking  his  habitual  exercise.  He  always 
walked  up  a  green  lane,  about  a  mile  west  of  the  village, 
whence  he  proceeded  along  the  border  of  the  woods,  over 
the  top  of  Strawberry  Hill,  and  down  into  the  ravine  beyond, 
until  he  reached  the  toll-gate  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the 
east.  The  remainder  of  his  walk  was  on  the  side  of  the  road 
back  to  Alderbrook.  By  this  means  Nickie  Ben  made  him 
self  visible  in  the  course  of  the  morning  to  all  the  villagers 
who  chose  to  look  at  him ;  and  many  were  the  impertinent 
little  misses  whose  giddy  eyes  took  the  measure  of  his  short- 
waisted  coat,  and  feasted  their  love  of  fun  on  his  heavy  boots, 
with  their  clumsy  shape,  and  the  iron  nails  in  their  heels,  and 
mimicked  his  gait,  and  talked  mockingly  of  the  piles  of  pen 
nies  in  his  coffers.  Everybody  despised  Ben  Nichols ;  and 
yet  he  had  never,  like  many  an  hoTwrable  man,  defrauded  the 
widow  of  her  dues,  or  been  a  canker  on  the  orphan's  birth 
right  ;  he  had  never  taken  a  penny  that  was  not  justly  his 
own ;  but  he  had  never  given  away,  or  wasted  or  bartered 
without  due  consideration,  even  the  hundredth  part  of  the 
smallest  coin  current. 

The  little  brown  cottage  occupied  by  the  widow  and  her 
son  was  never  visited  by  the  villagers ;  for  the  old  lady  had 
no  interests  in  common  with  them  ;  her  "boy"  was  the  centre 
of  all  her  thoughts,  wishes  and  affections,  and  his  doings  their 
circumference.  But  she  did  not  dote  as  other  mothers  do. 
She  did  not  offer  his  head  a  resting  place  when  he  came  home 
wearied,  and  endeavor,  by  presenting  pleasant  subjects,  to 
divert  his  mind  from  the  toils  and  cares  of  the  day ;  but  she 
inquired  after  his  clients,  what  business  had  come  to  him  since 


NICKIE    BEN.  175 

the  morning,  how  the  matters  of  yesterday  were  adjusted, 
and  how  much  money  they  had  brought  him.  Sometimes 
a  vague  suspicion  entered  the  mind  of  poor  Nickie  Ben  that 
he  was  not  living  to  the  best  purpose  ;  that  there  was  some 
thing  other  men  enjoyed  which  he  did  not;  sometimes  he 
even  felt  the  dog-like  treatment  which  he  received  at  the 
hands  of  his  fellows ;  but  then,  with  a  hard  drawn  breath,  he 
would  repeat  to  himself,  "hereafter  —  hereafter!"  and  go  on 
his  way  perseveringly.  Thus,  year  in,  year  out,  Benjamin 
Nichols  breathed  his  proportion  of  air,  and  filled  his  propor 
tion  of  space,  until  he  reached  "  life's  meridian  height,"  and 
travelled  the  distance  of  five  years  on  the  downward  slope ; 
and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  "  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of 
his  "  selfishness.  The  widow  was  alarmed,  and  interposed 
her  maternal  authority  —  then  reasoning  —  then  entreaty; 
but  it  was  useless.  The  sceptre  had  passed  from  her  hand 
—  her  reign  was  at  an  end. 

One  day  the  village  was  thrown  into  great  amazement  by 
the  report  that  Mrs.  Nichols  and  her  son  had  taken  seats  in 
the  eastern  stage-coach  ;  for  the  old  lady  had  not  been  out  of 
Alderbrook  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  and 
the  lawyer  never  moved  but  at  a  business  call.  The  matter 
was  a  nine  days'  wonder,  and  scarcely  grew  stale  afterward. 
Two,  three,  and  four  weeks  passed,  and,  finally,  late  of  a 
Saturday  night,  the  stage  brought  back  the  unusual  travellers. 
The  news  soon  spread  through  the  village,  coupled  with  ru 
mors  of  a  wondrous  metamorphose.  Indeed,  it  was  reported 
that  the  widow  and  her  son  could  scarcely  be  recognized  by 
those  who  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  them  every  day. 

All  Sunday  morning,  not  an  eye  in  church  but  was  prone 
to  wander  to  the  pew  where  sat  the  Nicholses  —  they  could 
not  help  it ;  who  could  blame  them  ?  The  enormous  bonnet, 
of  a  rusty  black,  that  the  old  lady  had  worn  ever  since  the 
day  of  her  daughter's  funeral ;  the  scant,  old-fashioned  gown, 
with  its  gored  skirt,  waist  of  a  finger's  length,  and  sleeves 
nearly  meeting  in  the  back ;  and  thfe  thin  shawl,  embroidered 
all  over  with  darns,  and  always  bearing  the  print  of  the 


176  NICK1E    BEN. 

smoothing-iron,  were  displaced  by  articles  richer  than  any 
shopkeeper  in  Alderbrook  would  venture  to  purchase.  Every 
body  was  amazed  ;  almost  everybody  felt  inclined  to  smile ; 
a  great  many  touched  their  neighbors  on  the  arm,  and  indi 
cated  by  some  slight  gesture  the  direction  that  the  eye  should 
take  ;  and  a  few  of  the  least  reverent  in  the  congregation 
whispered,  "  Bless  me !  how  young  the  Widow  Nichols 
looks ! "  And  they  had  reason,  for  the  old  lady  seemed  to 
have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life.  Brussels  laces  and  fashion 
able  bonnets  ivill  meddle  with  Time's  pencil,  though  they 
cannot  stay  his  scythe.  But  the  widow  attracted  a  very 
small  share  of  attention  in  comparison  with  her  son.  Every 
thing  about  him  was  new.  The  cut  of  his  coat  had  changed 
his  figure  completely,  and  the  inward  hilarity  consequent 
upon  emancipation  from  the  slavery  of  penny  counting,  had 
changed  his  face  so  that  he  was  really  handsome.  But  there 
was  another  thing  which  aided  the  transformation  of  the  face 
not  a  little.  The  short,  coarse  hair,  standing  out  from  his 
head  like  the  quills  of  a  porcupine,  had  been  turned  by  some 
magic  into  luxuriant  curls,  smooth  and  glossy  and  black  as 
the  wing  of  a  raven,  straying  back  from  his  forehead  as 
though  too  much  at  home  there  to  think  of  a  better  resting 
place.  Those  beautiful  curls  !  Why,  there  was  not  a  young 
beau  in  the  village  who  would  have  ventured  to  show  his  head 
beside  them.  And,  really,  Nickie  Ben  was  a  fine-looking  man 
—  quite  the  gentleman  —  with  nothing  exceptionable  about 
him,  from  kid  gloves  to  French  boots  —  even  the  tie  of  his 
cravat  was  comme  ilfaut.  We  watched  him  —  Ada  Palmer 
and  I — after  the  services  were  over,  as  he  tucked  his  mother 
under  his  arm,  not  very  gently,  and  strode,  with  even  more 
than  his  usual  swing,  down  the  street. 

"  He  has  not  been  to  a  walking  school,"  whispered  Ada. 

The  gait  was  pretty  much  all  that  was  left  to  prove  Nickie 
Ben's  identity. 

"  They  stop  at  the  '  Sheaf  and  Sickle,' "  continued  Ada, 
still  looking  after  them.f  "It  would  be  wonderful  if  they 
have  gone  into  the  extravagance  of  taking  rooms  there." 


NICKIE    BEN.  177 

Wonderful,  indeed,  but  it  was  none  the  less  true.  The 
tittle  brown  house  was  quite  too  small  for  the  metamorphosed 
lawyer ;  and  though  the  old  lady  groaned  a  little,  and  talked 
of  ruin,  she  submitted  with  a  much  better  grace  than  could 
have  been  expected.  And  now  it  somehow  happened  that 
two  or  three  neighbors  looked  in  upon  her ;  and,  though  the 
widow  talked  a  great  deal  of  her  son,  and  seemed  to  forget 
that  there  was  anybody  else  worth  caring  for  in  the  world, 
they  bore  with  the  foible  very  patiently.  As  for  the  son  him 
self,  he  began  to  evince  a  strong  tendency  to  socialness,  and 
even  managed  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  several  ladies  of 
the  village,  persons  who  had  grown  up  around  him  entirely 
unobserved  before. 

One  bright  morning  Ada  Palmer  and  I- were  out  with  our 
baskets,  despite  the  little  night  jewellers  that  had  left  a  string 
of  diamonds  on  every  grass  blade ;  and  it  chanced  to  be  pre 
cisely  the  hour  that  the  lawyer  was  in  the  habit  of  crossing 
Strawberry  Hill.  I  will  not  assert  that  we  were  ignorant  of 
this  peculiar  habit  of  his,  nor  that  our  glances  were  all  di 
rected  to  the  knoll  spotted  over  with  crimson,  while  he  passed 
along  the  edge  of  the  woods ;  these  are  irrelevant  matters. 
But  it  chanced  that  the  bachelor  lawyer,  after  walking  over 
the  top  of  the  fence  like  an  emperor,  came,  with  his  swinging 
arms  and  swinging  person,  and  long,  hasty  strides,  to  the  very 
part  of  the  hill  where  we  were  demurely  engaged  in  picking- 
berries,  like  two  sensible,  industrious  girls,  and — Did  you  ever 
see  a  glowing  sunlight  bursting  from  the  edges  of  a  black  storm 
cloud  ?  Then  you  may  have  some  faint  notion  of  the  magical 
effect  of  a  smile  on  such  a  face  as  Nickie  Ben's.  Who  could 
resist  it  ?  Not  Ada  Palmer  or  her  friend  Fanny.  I  much 
doubt  if  the  lawyer  had  ever  been  smiled  upon  before,  or  had 
ever  heard  a  voice  softer  than  his  mother's,  for  his  face  was 
full  of  a  pleased,  bashful  wonder.  We  had  supposed,  when 
placing  ourselves  in  Nickie  Ben's  path,  that  if  his  new  humor 
should  lead  him  to  look  at  us,  he  would  consider  us  little  chil 
dren,  with  whom  he  might  frolic  if  he  chose,  and  for  a  frolic 
we  were  fully  prepared.  But  not  so — what  had  he  to  do 


178  NICKIE    BEN. 

with  children's  play?  —  that  is,  real,  genuine  care-for-nought 
play.  Life  had  been  a  sober,  earnest  term  to  him  thus  far; 
and  now  he  was  as  sober  and  earnest  in  looking  for  pleasure 
as  he  ever  had  been  in  looking  for  money.  Now  he  was  a 
rich  man,  he  could  pay  for  his  enjoyments ;  and  should  he 
stoop  to  pick  up  those  which  the  beggar  might  possess  ?  Of 
course  all  these  thoughts  did  not  pass  through  the  lawyer's 
mind  while  crossing  Strawberry  Hill.  They  did  not  pass 
through,  because  they  remained  there  all  the  time ;  they  had 
resolved  themselves  into  ever-present  feelings;  and  he  had 
no  disposition  to  be  anything  but  in  earnest.  We  did  not 
altogether  understand  this,  however;  and  when  the  lawyer 
doffed  his  hat,  and  smiled,  and  in  his  best  tones  bade  us  a 
good-morning,  though  we  smiled  in  return,  and  bowed,  and 
said  "  good  morning,"  too,  the  embarrassment  was  all  on  our 
side. 

"  How  stupid !"  exclaimed  Ada,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of 
hearing. 

"Who?  we  or  Nickie  Ben?" 

"  Both,  I  think.  Here  we  have  lost  a  morning  nap,  got 
our  dresses  draggled  with  dew,  and  turned  the  laugh  of  every 
body  against  us,  (for  nobody  will  ever  believe  we  came  for 
strawberries,)  just  for  the  sake  of  hearing  a  stupid  old  Jew 
of  a  fellow,  who  ought  to  have  had  that  new  wig  of  his  when 
we  were  in  our  cradles,  remind  us  that  we  are  young  ladies. 
Come,  Fan,  we  may  as  well  go  home  and  take  a  dish  of  cof 
fee  upon  it." 

"  With  a  dozen  berries  each?" 

"  We  will  hide  the  baskets  in  the  grass,  and  say  we  came 
out  for  the  benefit  of  the  dew  to  brighten  our  complexions. 
But  I  will  never  laugh  again  about  Nickie  Ben,  not  even  his 
walk  and  his  bow.  We  are  the  simpletons." 

Ada  and  I  did  not  go  to  Strawberry  Hill  again  in  the 
morning;  and  in  a  few  days,  I  began  to  observe  that  her 
belle-ship  took  a  deal  of  extra  pains  to  avoid,  without  down 
right  incivility,  meeting  the  lawyer  in  the  street.  Next,  it 
was  rumored  throughout  the  vilkge  that  Nickie  Ben  had 


NICKIE    BEN.  179 

called  at  Deacon  Palmer's ;  next,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
calling  frequently;  and,  finally,  that  he,  as  often  as  twice  a 
week,  spent  an  entire  evening  there.  But  I  chanced  to  be  in 
possession  of  a  secret  of  which  the  villagers  were  ignorant, 
I  suppose  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  country  people  cannot 
be  "  not  at  home,"  with  impunity,  like  dwellers  in  the  town ; 
so  Nickie  Ben's  tremendous  knock  was  always  a  signal  for 
Ada's  slipping  through  the  back  door,  and  bounding  across 
the  clover-field  to  Underbill.  It  was  a  disagreeable  state  of 
things,  very ;  and  Ada  declared  that  she  would  never  return 
a  bachelor's  smile  again,  till  she  had  first  asked  his  intentions. 
But  the  lawyer  was  on  the  shady  side  of  forty,  and  he  had 
now  no  time  to  los'e  in  chasing  the  butterfly  caprices  of  a 
spoiled  belle ;  so  he  decided  on  a  single  bold  stroke. 

The  two  evenings  formerly  spent  with  good  Deacon  Palmer 
(and  very  often  whole  days  and  nights)  were  now  devoted  to 
the  study  of  architecture  ;  and  he  could  talk  of  nothing  (Nickie 
Ben  had  really  become  a  conversationist)  but  Grecian  cottages, 
beautiful  country  residences,  and  such  like  subjects  to  make 
rustics  stare,  from  morning  to  dew-fall.  And  Nickie  Ben 
was  not  one  to  talk  in  vain.  A  fine  meadow  on  the  west  of 
Alderbrook,  without  a  stone  upon  it,  and  so  smooth  and  even 
that  a  Yankee  would  have  invented  a  machine  for  mowing  it 
at  a  single  slice  without  grazing  earth,  was  finally  selected 
and  purchased  of  its  owner.  And  now  came  parties  of  work 
men  and  loads  of  lumber,  and  the  beautiful  meadow  wras  turned 
into  a  scene  of  wild  confusion.  But  it  was  a  confusion  that 
had  the  elements  of  order  in  it ;  for  soon  there  arose  in  the 
centre  of  the  green  a  most  graceful  structure,  which  hands  a 
plenty  were  employed  in  adorning.  No  fault  could  be  found 
with  it ;  it  was  simple  and  convenient  and  exquisitely  beauti 
ful  ;  and  well  it  might  be,  for  Nickie  Ben's  purse  had  paid 
for  the  taste  which  planned,  as  well  as  the  labor  which  reared 
it.  And  the  lawyer  rubbed  his  hands  riirht  gleefully  when 
people  praised  his  cottage,  and  blessed — himself  that  he  was 
rich.  The  cottage  was  finally  finished,  and  then  more  than 
one  head  was  employed  in  furnishing  it.  Marble,  and  rose- 


180  NICKIE    BEN. 

wood,  and  mahogany,  and  Brussels,  and  Turkey,  and  crim 
son  damask,  and  chandeliers,  and  other  words  belonging  to 
the  vocabulary  of  luxury,  were  now  very  common  on  the  lips 
of  Nickie  Ben ;  and,  after  talking  for  a  proper  time,  he  set 
out,  with  a  paid  friend  at  his  elbow,  for  New  York.  By  this 
time  gossiping  neighbors  began  to  measure,  mentally  and  with 
their  tongues,  the  depth  of  his  purse,  venturing  surmises  con 
cerning  its  exhaustion ;  but  they  had  forgotten  the  quiet  little 
streams  which  keep  the  ocean  full,  and  the  lawyer  had  good 
reason  to  smile  at  their  surmises.  Nickie  Ben's  next  extrav 
agance  was  a  carriage — a  "  splendid  affair" — with  all  the 
belongings  necessary  and  unnecessary,  by  no  means  omitting 
the  "  gentleman"  to  hold  the  ribbons,  this  last  was  a  mas 
ter  stroke  of  policy ;  and,  by  the  way,  O  ye  half-despairing, 
half-hoping  lovers,  take  the  advice  of  one  who  has  a  right  to 
know  the  heel  of  Achilles  in  a  woman's  heart,  and,  when 
everything  else  fails,  set  up  a  carriage.  It  was  really  pro 
voking  to  see  the  lawyer  whirl  through  the  streets,  his  fine 
blood-horses  prancing,  his  harness  glittering,  and  his  carriage 
sweeping  the  air  with  such  conscious,  indisputable  superiority, 
with  nobody  younger  and  fairer  than  the  widow  by  his  side ; 
it  was  tantalizing,  and  many  a  pretty  belle  was  heard  to  ac 
knowledge  that  if  she  were  Ada  Palmer  it  would  be  very 
tempting.  To  be  sure  the  fine  carriage  in  our  muddy  uneven 
streets  looked  a  little  like  a  Canary  bird  in  a  quagmire ;  but 
that  was  something  that  the  elderly  people  could  appreciate 
better  than  we ;  and  the  carriage  gained  the  lawyer  more  re 
spect  from  those  whose  respect  he  valued  just  now  most,  than 
even  his  rare  cottage  with  its  luxurious  furniture. 

Do  you  now  see  how  Nickie  Ben  sacrificed  his  manliness 
and  independence  to  public  opinion  ? 

And  Ada  ? 

Oh !  Ada  laughed,  and  jumped  into  her  father's  big  hay 
wagon,  and  rode  wherever  she  chose  ;  and  so  the  laugh  of 
the  whole  village  was  on  her  side.  Alas  !  poor  Nickie  Ben  ! 
—  Alas  ! — no,  I  recall  the  sympathy.  What  has  a  man  with 
plenty  of  money  in  his  purse,  and  a  head  rife  with  plans  for 


NICKIE    BEN.  181 

enjoying  it,  to  do  with  sighing?  The  rich  lawyer  was  not 
discouraged ;  he  was  only  disappointed ;  and  his  most  painful 
feeling  was  regret  for  the  loss  of  time.  He  immediately  in 
stalled  the  widow  mistress  of  the  new  cottage ;  procured  an 
array  of  servants,  probably  in  order  to  gratify  her  love  of 
rule ;  and  then,  stepping  into  his  carriage,  he  turned  his 
horses'  head  eastward.  In  a  few  weeks  he  returned  in  high 
spirits ;  and,  though  he  bowed  to  everybody,  and  smiled,  and 
appeared  more  social  than  ever,  nobody,  not  even  Ada  Palmer, 
crossed  the  street  to  avoid  meeting  him. 

Spring  came  in  trippingly,  full  of  playful  freaks  and  sweet 
caprices ;  and  before  many  buds  had  opened,  the  lawyer's 
carriage  had  whirled  him  away  from  Alderbrook.  We  were 
on  the  qui  vive.  Who  was  to  be  mistress  of  the  beautiful 
cottage  ?  how  looked  she  ?  was  she  old  or  young  ?  pretty  or 
plain  ?  Of  course  she  would  be  purse  proud,  for  who  would 
marry  Nickie  Ben  but  for  his  money? — and  she  would  be 
vulgar  and  showy  —  and  nobody  would  like  her — that  was 
certain.  But  the  satisfactory  certainty  did  not  silence  curi 
osity. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  every  lid  was  up  in  Alder- 
brook  ;  for  the  lawyer  had  returned  with  his  bride. 

"  Now  for  velvets,  and  ribbons,  and  laces,"  whispered  Ada 
Palmer,  though  in  a  place  where  she  should  not  have  whis 
pered,  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Nickie  Ben's  carriage  from 
the  window. 

The  next  moment  every  eye  in  the  church  was  turned  to 
the  door,  and  the  lawyer  opened  it  and  entered.  That  his 
bride !  or  had  the  little  white  violet  nestled  in  the  moss  by 
the  brook-side,  stolen  a  pulse  from  the  grass,  and  a  form  from 
the  guardians  that  bend  over  it  in  the  night-time  ?  Where 
had  Nickie  Ben  found  that  pure,  living  dew-drop  ?  and  how 
came  it  in  his  possession  ?  The  sweet  bride  opened  her 
innocent  blue  eyes  as  she  entered ;  and  then  immediately  the 
long  lashes  drooped  over  them,  and  rested  meekly  on  the 
dainty  pillow  below,  and,  with  a  startled,  timid  look,  she 
instinctively  drew  a  little  nearer  her  husband.  It  would  have 
16 


182  NICKIE    BEN. 

required  an  Amazon  to  meet  the  stare  of  that  surprised  con 
gregation.  And  she  was  a  simple,  lovely  creature,  just 
emerged  from  childhood ;  a  yet  unfolded  bud,  that  the  breeze 
had  never  kissed,  nor  the  sun  rifled  of  a  single  sweet.  Had 
money  bought  this  treasure  ?  It  was  hard  to  think  it,  and 
yet — we  did. 

The  next  day  the  whole  village  called  upon  the  gentle  girl 
that  our  despised  lawyer  had  given  a  home  among  us.  It 
was  late  in  the  day  when  Ada  Palmer  and  myself  followed 
the  fashion  set  us,  and  proceeded  to  the  cottage.  The  bride 
was  evidently  wearied  with  the  tedious  ceremonies  to  which 
she  had  been  subjected,  and  had  flung  herself  on  a  sofa  to 
rest.  There  was  something  like  vexation,  with  a  slight  dash 
of  merriment  in  it,  on  her  countenance,  when  more  visiters 
were  announced ;  and  we  saw  it  in  a  moment,  and  saw,  too, 
how  infinitely  amusing  to  one  as  young  as  ourselves,  must 
have  been  the  day's  grave  formalities.  I  do  not  think  we 
smiled,  at  least  more  than  was  proper ;  we  certainly  spoke  as 
the  deacon  himself  might  have  spoken ;  but  somehow,  (and  I 
shall  always  put  implicit  faith  in  Mesmerism  therefor,)  the 
lady  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  sympathy  and  appre 
ciation,  and  her  pretty,  childish  face  grew  bright  with  its 
expression  of  frank  pleasure.  Not  a  word  had  been  spoken 
but  strictly  ceremonial  ones ;  not  a  tell-tale  muscle  moved ; 
but  there  was  a  shining  out  of  the  heart  upon  the  face,  and 
we  all  comprehended  the  delicate  pantomime.  So  we  drew 
up  our  chairs,  forming  a  close  group,  and  —  "where  is  ever 
the  use  "  of  confining  the  tongue  after  one  has  used  a  more 
expressive  language?  —  we  were  friends  and  confidants  past 
recall,  and  we  were  children  enough  to  trust  each  other  as 
wiser  people  never  trust.  We  talked  of  Alderbrook,  and  the 
people  in  it,  and  made  plans  for  the  summer,  and  laughed 
and  chattered  on  till  the  twilight  grew  very  gray ;  and  then 
we  begged  of  our  new  acquaintance  not  to  send  for  lights, 
and  threatened  to  go  away  if  she  did,  and  spoke  and  acted  in 
all  respects  like  privileged  friends.  So  she  sat  down  by  us 
again  ;  and  the  pensiveness  of  the  hour  mellowed  our  gayety 


NICK1E    BEN.  183 

into  something  no  less  happy,  but  a  little  holier.  And  then 
sweet  Mrs.  Nichols  told  us  something  of  herself.  She  was 
an  orphan,  not  yet  out  of  mourning ;  and  that  was  why 
she  wore  no  bridal  ornaments.  She  talked  of  her  mother  — 
how  she  had  faded  day  by  day ;  and  how  she  had  laid  her 
thin  hand  lovingly  upon  the  forehead  of  her  only  child,  and 
talked  to  her  of  the  dark,  dark  future,  when  there  would  be 
a  coffin  and  a  heap  of  earth  between  them  two  ;  and  as  she 
talked  and  wept,  we  wept,  too,  as  though  the  loss  had  been 
our  own.  Then  she  told  of  a  kind  man  who  came  to  them, 
and  how  generously  he  acted,  and  how  nobly  promised ;  and 
how  she  had  loved  him  from  the  first  moment,  though  it  was 
a  long  time  before  she  dreamed  of  becoming  his  wife.  And 
then  she  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  looked  half-frightened,  as 
though  doubting  if  she  had  not  said  too  much.  But  we  told 
her  we  were  glad  that  Mr.  Nichols  had  been  so  kind ;  and 
that  was  touching  the  right  chord.  Oh  !  so  kind  !  we  could 
know  nothing  about  it.  Her  poor  mother  had  blessed  him 
with  her  last  breath,  and  had  said  that  he  was  certainly  sent 
of  God.  She  did  not  know  that  the  world  contained  such  good 
people  before ;  he  had  done  everything  for  her  ;  and  now  he 
had  brought  her  to  such  a  sweet  home  —  it  was  fit  for  a  prin 
cess.  She  could  never  thank  him  enough,  and  (blushing 
again)  love  him  enough  ;  all  she  could  do  would  be  to  watch 
carefully  that  no  trouble  came  to  him  which  she  could  charm 
away,  and  to  study  his  wishes  always  —  but  that  would  be 
no  return  ;  could  we  think  of  anything  she  could  do  more  ? 
There  was  a  well-known  step  on  the  stair,  and  the  face  of  the 
pretty  young  wife  lighted  up  with  animation  ;  so  we  pressed 
her  bright  lips,  like  old  friends,  and  promising  to  "  come  again 
to-morrow,"  turned  away. 

It  was  very  late  that  night  before  Ada  and  I  parted  ;  for  the 
gentle,  guileless  stranger  had  grown  quite  to  our  hearts,  and 
we  talked  over  her  prospects  with  doubt  and  trembling.  But 
there  was  no  need.  Love  had  been  dew  and  sunshine  to  the 
delicate  plant ;  and  now  the  very  consciousness  on  the  part 
of  Benjamin  Nichols  that  he  could  not  understand  nor  fully 


184  NICKIE    BEN. 

appreciate  her,  only  made  him  worship  her  the  more.  He 
had  sought  her  to  please  himself;  he  was  interested  by  her 
gentle  sweetness,  and  her  gratitude  touched  a  chord  in  his 
bosom  that  had  never  before  been  stirred  ;  it  reached  below 
the  encrusting  selfishness  of  a  life-time.  He  had  never  loved 
anything  before,  and  now  his  love  became  idolatry.  All  this 
was  so  new  and  strange  that  he  seemed  to  himself  a  fresh- 
hearted  boy,  just  beginning  the  world;  just  learning  the  al 
phabet  of  life,  such  as  God  intended  we  should  have  it ;  and 
he  turned  to  his  unsuspecting  teacher  with  new  devotion 
every  hour.  Ah  !  what  a  feeling  of  self-respect  came -with 
the  certainty  that  she,  at  least,  preferred  himself  to  his  riches ; 
that,  were  he  a  beggar,  she  would  be  the  same ;  and  how 
trivial  appeared  his  possessions,  in  comparison  with  the  pearl 
that  he  had  at  first  sought  only  to  adorn  them. 

The  moral  ?  Nay,  reader  mine,  you  had  no  promise  of 
that.  It  is  scarcely  fair  to  attempt  to  turn  a  lady's  boudoir 
into  a  laboratory.  I  have  a  little  garden  —  a  very  little  one; 
and  I  will  gather  you  bouquets  from  it  of  such  flowers  as  I 
can  cultivate,  begging  you  kindly  to  fling  aside  the  weeds, 
and  forgive  the  oversight  of  their  admission.  But  I  am  only 
a  florist,  and  have  no  skill  in  the  arts  of  chemical  analysis 
and  combination.  Accept,  then,  my  simple  offering  of  flowers, 
since  these  perishable  things  are  all  I  have,  and  fling  them 
into  your  own  alembic.  Though  their  life  pass  with  my  own 
summer,  I  would  fain  hope  that  some  heart  may  thus  extract 
a  perfume  that  will  lie  upon  it  when  the  florist  and  her  hum 
ble  labors  are  alike  forgotten. 


185 


WHERE    ARE    THE    DEAD? 

OH,  whither  have  they  fled  — 

Those  spirits  kind  and  warm, 
Which,  numbered  with  the  dead,/ 

Have  nobly  braved  the  storm ; 
And  gained  a  port  at  last, 

A  port  of  peace  and  rest, 
Where,  earthly  perils  past, 

Their  happy  souls  are  blest  ? 

In  some  bright-beaming  star, 

Do  they  weave  the  pencilled  rays, 
Which,  streaming  from  afar, 

Upon  our  vision  blaze  ? 
Or  is  the  flickering  light, 

Which  the  varying  twilight  brings, 
As  it  glimmers  on  our  sight, 

But  the  waving  of  their  wings  ? 

Perchance  along  the  sky, 

The  far-off  azure  dome, 
They  wing  them  free  and  high, 

In  their  lofty  spirit-home ; 
And  the  cooling  zephyr's  wing, 

As  it  fans  the  brow  of  care, 
In  its  voiceless  whispering, 

May  a  message  from  them  bear. 

I  have  read  a  page  that  tells, 
Of  a  home  leyond  the  sky ; 

Where  the  ransomed  spirit  dwells, 
With  the  God  of  love  on  high. 


186  WHERE    ARE    THE    DEAD? 

There,  their  crowns  of  living  light, 
They  cast  down  at  his  feet, 

To  seek  this  lower  night, 

And  the  child  of  sorrow  greet. 

Low,  where  dark  shadows  fall 

On  the  heart  and  on  the  brain, 
Where  earthly  pleasures  pall, 

And  the  bosom  throbs  with  pain ; 
There,  with  kindly  lingering  stay, 

On  their  ministry  of  love, 
They  smooth  the  thorny  way, 

And  point  to  rest  above. 


187 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM. 

HAVE  you  seen  Miss  Follansbe,  the  elegant  Miss  Catha 
rine  Follansbe,  belle  and  beauty  ?  You  must  have  met  her 
at  some  of  the  gay  watering-places ;  for  she  has  frequented 
the  most  fashionable  during  the  season.  A  genuine  star  is 
she,  not  of  the  first  magnitude,  perhaps,  though  requiring  but 
the  reputation  of  being  an  heiress,  and  a  little  less  personal 
dignity  and  haughty  reserve,  to  rank  above  the  most  brilliant. 
She  has  shone  at  Washington,  too,  during  two  or  three  gay 
winters  ;  and  it  has  been  whispered  among  the  young  lady's 
most  intimate  friends,  that  more  than  one  coronet  has  been  at 
her  disposal,  to  say  nothing  of  the  honors  of  senators,  and 
purses  of  millionaires.  How  that  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I 
do  know  all  about  Miss  Follansbe's  first  lover. 

Ten  years  ago  the  radiant  belle  was  only  little  Katy  Fol 
lansbe,  or  "  Lily  Katy,"  as  she  was  generally  called  —  I  sup 
pose  on  account  of  the  pure  transparency  of  that  white  skin 
of  hers,  and  the  slender  gracefulness  of  her  fragile  little 
figure,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  drooping  osier  branch, 
or  that  most  spiritual  of  flowering  things,  the  lily  of  the  val 
ley.  You  will  not  believe  that  the  proud,  queenly  Miss  Fol 
lansbe  was  ever  such  a  pale,  shy  creature,  all  nature,  all 
simplicity  and  untaught  grace  ;  and,  indeed,  there  is  but  little, 
save  that  sweet,  childish  mouth,  to  prove  Lily  Katy  and  the 
self-possessed  belle  identical. 

Ten  years  ago  Squire  Follansbe  was  not,  as  now,  "  one  of 
the  first  families  "  in  Peltonville,  and  Lily  Katy  bounded  into 
her  fourteenth  summer  singing  cheerily,  "  My  face  is  my  for 
tune,"  and  verily  believing  (if  she  thought  anything  about  it) 
that  no  other  fortune  was  necessary.  Foolish  Katy !  Squire 
Follansbe  had  a  growing  family  to  care  for,  and  no  means  of 


lOO  THE    YOUNG    DREAM. 

procuring  the  wherewithal  for  their  maintenance,  but  his  own 
fruitful  brain,  seconded  by  a  most  economical  and  matter-of- 
fact  helpmate.  The  squire  was  one  of  those  all-enduring1 
all-hoping  beings,  an  office-seeker ;  and  while  golden  visions 
of  futurity  were  knotting  up  his  brain  into  strange  devices,  it 
not  unfrequently  happened  that  his  purse  hugged  its  last  six 
pence,  and  the  bare  walls  of  his  empty  larder  sent  a  chill  to 
the  heart  of  his  good  lady.  There  were  bills,  too.  One 
bright  spring  morning  Lily  Katy  crept  away  to  her  own  room, 
with  incomprehensible  misgivings  at  seeing  her  school  bill 
presented.  Thither  the  mother  soon  followed,  and  a  long, 
confidential  communication  ensued.  Lily  Katy  had  never 
felt  so  important  in  her  life  as  on  that  morning,  for  she  had 
been  entrusted  with  weighty  secrets ;  and,  if  she  did  not  grow 
six  inches  taller,  in  those  two  hours,  she  was  certainly  a  year 
older.  It  is  strange  how  lightly  men  will  throw  that  shadow 
called  thoughtfulness  on  a  young  face,  that,  but  for  the  spirit's 
joyance,  wrould  be  a  blank  without ;  for  it  changes  the  whole 
current  of  life,  and  implants  in  the  awakened  heart  the  seed 
of  all  its  misery,  and  its  sweetest  bliss.  And  a  word,  a  glance, 
will  sometimes  touch  the  hidden  spring,  which,  being  once 
opened,  will  flow  on  forever.  Lily  Katy  sprang  from  her 
couch  that  morning  a  child,  a  careless,  buoyant,  beautiful 
child ;  and  she  sat  down  at  the  dinner-table  a  woman ;  a  very 
little  woman,  it  is  true,  and  so  girlish  in  her  pretty  ways,  that 
it  would  have  required  a  close  observer  to  note  the  change  ; 
but  yet  changed  forever.  Something,  however,  in  her  ap 
pearance  seemed  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  squire ;  for  he 
paused  several  times  in  the  discussion  of  his  cutlet,  to  look  at 
her  strangely  serious  face ;  and  at  last  inquired  if  his  pretty 
darling  was  quite  well.  Little  did  he  dream  that  the  child 
had  been  diving  her  pretty  head  to  the  bottom  of  his  affairs, 
deeper  than  he  ever  ventured  to  look  himself,  and  had  come 
up  with  a  care  lodged  in  every  dimple. 

In  a  fortnight  from  that  time  Lily  Katy  was  duly  installed 
sole  sovereign  of  the  sixteen  square  feet  enclosed  within  the 
walls  of  a  district  school-house,  some  three  or  four  miles  from 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  1S9 

Peltonville ;  and,  of  course,  she  was  no  longer  a  child.  She 
was  very  small,  and  very  young,  and  there  were  many  wise 
shakes  of  the  head  when  she  first  assumed  her  responsibili 
ties  ;  but  soon  all  acknowledged  that  she  was  so  "  pretty- 
spoken,"  and  so  discreet  withal,  that  she  was  fully  competent 
to  take  charge  of  her  dozen  and  a  half  abecedarians.  And 
she  was  a  miracle  of  a  little  teacher.  The  fat,  shy  ragamuf 
fins  that  gathered  around  her  knee  advanced  surprisingly  in 
their  primitive  lore ;  and  Lily  Katy  soon  became  the  pet  of 
the  whole  district.  The  Chifferings,  living  in  the  large,  white 
house,  with  three  butternuts  and  a  black  cherry-tree  in  front ; 
the  Beltons,  a  more  intellectual  but  less  wealthy  family,  occu 
pying  the  low,  brown  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ;  and  the 
Thompsons,  a  respectable  family  of  widowed  women-folks,  on 
the  cross  road  around  the  corner,  all  took  her  into  especial 
favor.  It  was  at  the  Chifferings',  however,  that  Katy  made 
her  home ;  because  they  had  a  roomy  house,  roomy  hearts, 
and  three  bouncing,  good-natured  daughters,  (the  two  sons,  of 
course,  had  no  influence  in  the  case,)  who  would  have  served 
the  little  school-mistress  on  their  knees,  if  a  glance  of  her 
sweet  blue  eyes  had  but  bidden  them. 

Before  many  weeks  passed  Katy  had  become  a  mighty 
queen,  with  every  family  within  two  miles  of  her  seat  of  gov 
ernment  for  dutiful  subjects.  But  this  was  not  all ;  her  fame 
had  spread  into  the  neighboring  districts. 

One  night,  on  returning  from  school,  Katy  observed  a  horse 
tied  to  one  of  the  butternuts  in  front  of  Mr.  Chiffering's,  crop 
ping  the  fresh  grass  very  lazily,  as  though  it  were  no  new 
thing  to  him,  and  only  resorted  to  by  way  of  killing  time. 
"  So-ho  ! "  thought  the  little  lady,  "  company ! "  and  then  she 
smoothed  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  peeped  over  her  shoulder 
to  see  that  the  flaxen  ringlets  were  doing  no  discredit  to  their 
dainty  resting-place  ;  for  there  was  something  about  the  sleek 
steed  and  his  belongings  that  spoke  well  for  his  master. 
"  So-ho  ! "  repeated  the  lady,  with  an  arch  smile,  bending  her 
slight  figure  a  very  little,  and  peering  away  up  among  the 
apple-trees.  "  So-ho  !  master  dandy  !  you  are  not  usually  on 


190  THE    YOUNG   DREAM. 

such  intimate  terms  with  the  Chifferings,  I  dare  say."  And 
there,  sure  enough,  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  farmer's 
favorite  '*  graft,"  his  heel  kicking  the  turf  most  unmercifully, 
stood  a  slender,  girlish-looking  youth,  almost  as  white  as  her 
self,  in  earnest  conference  with  the  two  broad-shouldered 
young  Chifferings.  But  Katy  had  no  more  time  for  observa 
tion.  She  had  just  become  visible  to  the  inmates  of  the 
house,  and  she  now  found  herself  forcibly  seized  upon  by  her 
three  friends,  and  borne  away  to  the  privacy  of  an  upper  bed 
room  ;  while  all  together  proceeded  to  unfold  an  exceedingly 
rich  budget  of  news.  The  pretty  youth  in  the  orchard  was 
Arthur  Truesdail,  son  of  old  Farmer  Truesdail,  of  Crow  Hill ; 
but  his  errand  was  the  important  matter.  There  was  a  beau 
tiful  piece  of  woodland  within  his  father's  domain,  and  this 
was  destined  to  be  the  scene  of  a  grand  pic-nic,  to  which  all 
the  young  people  for  six  miles  round  would  be  invited.  Ar 
thur  was  a  college  boy,  just  come  home  to  spend  his  summer 
vacation,  and,  of  course,  (in  spite  of  beaver  and  broadcloth,) 
the  belle  of  the  neighborhood.  And  very  Z»eZ/e-like,  indeed, 
looked  the  girlish  youth,  there  beneath  the  apple-trees ;  with 
the  bright  curls  peeping  from  beneath  his  cap  of  purple  vel 
vet,  and  his  white  hand  coquetting  with  Robert  ChifFering's 
awkward  mastiff.  There  was  a  roguish  twinkle  in  the  eye 
of  Lily  Katy,  as  she  watched  him  from  the  window ;  but  it 
was  the  only  expression  she  gave  to  any  opinion  she  might 
have  formed  of  the  delicate  youth  on  whom  her  friends  were 
expending  their  eloquence. 

"  And  it  is  all  got  up  for  your  sake,"  was  the  concluding 
point  of  Miss  Amanda  Chiffering's  discourse  ;  "  they  want  to 
get  acquainted  with  you." 

However  bright  Lily  Katy's  eyes  might  be,  and  however 
freely  she  might  use  them,  she  was  neither  vanity  nor  amuse 
ment-proof;  and  while  her  little  heart  went  pit-a-pat  at 
thought  of  the  honor  done  her,  her  head  was  nearly  turned 
with  its  anticipatory  delight.  She,  however,  smoothed  down 
her  features  enough  to  go  through  the  formality  of  an  intro 
duction  to  the  blue-eyed  collegian,  when  Robert  Chiffering 


THE  YOUNG  DREAM.  191 

brought  him  in  to  tea;  but  smiles  were  constantly  gathering 
on  her  face,  and  her  little  fingers  were  most  grievously  afflicted 
with  a  tremor,  that  seemed  to  have  its  origin  in  her  dancing 
eyes. 

How  happy  was  Lily  Katy  when  she  went  to  her  pillow 
that  night !  and  how  she  wished  that  everybody  could  know 
what  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  be  a  school-mistress ! 

The  day  for  the  pic-nic  came  at  last,  though  never  a  dame 
in  Christendom  watched  "  boiling  pot "  as  those  hours  were 
watched.  The  day  came,  and  it  was  a  glorious  one  —  a  tithe 
too  hot,  may-be,  but  it  would  be  only  the  more  delightful  in 
the  woods,  with  the  breezes  wandering  about,  cooling  them 
selves  on  the  fresh  leaves,  and  the  silver-voiced  brook  sending 
up  its  healthful  breath  with  its  music,  to  add  to  the  attractions 
of  the  sylvan  dining-room. 

The  "big  team"  —  the  springless  wagon  and  span  of  fat 
plough-horses  —  stood  before  Farmer  Chiffering's  door,  and 
Katy's  foot  was  resting  on  the  round  of  the  old  kitchen  chair, 
that  was  wont  to  perform  the  office  of  carriage-steps,  when 
Arthur  Truesdail's  buggy  came  whisking  around  the  corner. 
There  was  a  short,  embarrassed  conference ;  and  then,  not 
withstanding  a  deal  of  amusingly  sly  hesitation  on  her  part, 
Katy  was  transferred  from  the  lumber-wagon  to  a  more  hon 
ored  seat  at  the  left  hand  of  the  fair-haired  college  youth. 

Oh  !  how  Lily  Katy  was  envied  that  morning !  how  sim 
ple-hearted,  blush-colored  damsels  longed  for  just  wisdom 
enough  to  be  school -mistresses  !  and  how  Arthur,  and  Arthur's 
new  frock  coat,  and  Arthur's  fine  turn-out  were  admired  and 
readmired  !  But  Katy  was  not  the  only  object  of  envy<  It 
was  certainly  no  small  honor  to  sit  at  the  right  hand  of  the 
pretty  school-mistress  ;  and  there  was  a  provoking  conscious 
ness  in  the  manner  of  young  Truesdail,  which  invited  rather 
than  deprecated  envy.  Ah  !  Katy  was  beautiful !  The  folds 
of  jaconet  hung  about  her  lily-o'-the-valley  figure  like  snow 
wreaths ;  and  her  small  straw  hat,  with  the  bright  cluster  of 
opening  rose-buds  resting  against  its  crown,  just  peeped  over 
the  flaxen  curls  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  sunny  eyes, 


192  THE    YOUNG   DREAM. 

without  overshadowing  them  in  the  least.  And  then  that 
most  bewitchingly  little  hand,  and  the  still  more  hewitchingly 
little  foot,  neatly  cased  in  glove  and  gaiter  !  Arthur  Trues- 
dail  had  a  very  charming  vision  of  a  horseback  ride  every 
time  he  ventured  to  look  down  at  the  little,  bird-like  looking 
thing  peeping  from  beneath  the  envious  hem ;  and  all  for  the 
sake  of  the  half-minute  that  he  might  take  that  wicked  brain- 
turner  of  a  foot  into  his  palm,  while  lifting  its  owner  to  the 
saddle.  As  the  buggy  rolled  up  to  the  front  door  of  an  im 
mense  red  farm-house,  that,  but  for  its  size,  would  certainly 
have  been  lost  in  the  luxurious  wilderness  of  lilac-bushes,  and 
roses,  and  hollyhocks  surrounding  it,  a  young  man  broke  from 
a  bevy  of  red-cheeked  girls  that  stood  smiling  :'u  the  doorway, 
and  hurried  to  the  gate  to  welcome  Lily  Katy. 

The  school-mistress  had  only  time  to  hear,  "  My  brother 
Philip,"  and  to  smile  and  shake  her  curls  toward  a  very  seri 
ous-looking  face,  before  she  was  lifted  to  the  ground  and  led 
away  to  the  group  awaiting  her ;  "  my  brother  Philip  "  being 
left  to  care  for  the  horse,  while  the  collegian  devoted  himself 
to  his  pretty  lady. 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  him  so  melancholy-like  this  gay 
morning,"  thought  Katy,  as  her  eye  turned  for  a  moment  on 
Philip  Truesdail ;  and  when  he  returned  and  joined  the  com 
pany  that  was  to  proceed  across  the  fields  to  the  woods,  she 
again  looked  into  his  serious  face  with  wonder.  It  was 
strange ;  and  Katy,  being  too  young  to  believe  seriousness 
quite  compatible  with  happiness,  began  to  feel  very  kindly 
toward  him,  and  to  shape  her  sentiments  and  fashion  her 
words  with  a  glance  of  thought  toward  him,  whatever  direc 
tion  her  eye  might  chance  to  take  the  while.  And  Philip 
seemed  to  appreciate  her  efforts ;  for  he  began  to  smile,  and 
his  blue  eye  grew  beautifully  dark  while  looking  forth  an 
answer  to  her  bright  words.  It  may  be  that  Arthur  appre 
ciated  them  too,  for  he  placed  himself  close  beside  her,  and 
devoted  himself  to  her  so  exclusively  as  to  appropriate  every 
word  and  glance. 

"  You  must  distribute  your  attentions  a  little ,"  Katy  heard 


THE    YOUNG   DREAM.  193 

the  elder  brother  whisper  to  her  cavalier,  "  or  you  will  offend 
everybody." 

"  Confound  everybody  !  "  was  the  answer ;  "  I  will  speak 
to  those  I  like,  and  leave  the  distributing  to  you.  You  can 
play  the  devoted  to  one  as  well  as  another,  Phil;  but  this 
little  lady  likes  me,  and  I  like  her,  and  we  shall  have  it  all 
our  own  way." 

Saucy  enough  was  the  smile  that  flitted  across  Lily  Katy's 
face  at  the  confident  tone  of  the  young  collegian  ;  and  a  world 
of  arch  malice  sparkled  in  her  eyes  when  they  again  fell 
upon  him.  Arthur  Truesdail  paid  dearly  for  that  one  speech; 
but,  as  his  complacency  evaporated,  his  gayety  rose  ;  and  so 
the  parly  should  have  given  Lily  Katy  a  vote  of  thanks. 

And  "  my  brother  Philip  ?"  Why,  he  very  nearly  forgot 
his  own  cautionary  advice,  and  scarcely  lost  sight  of  Katy 
through  the  day.  Once,  the  school-mistress  found  herself 
beside  him,  away  in  the  depths  of  the  woods,  with  her  feet 
resting  on  a  rich  carpet  of  golden  moss ;  the  flashy  brook 
singing  and  chattering  about  nothing  close  before  them,  and 
the  busy  trees  nodding  and  whispering  above  her  head,  as 
though  they  knew  a  great  deal  more  than  they  chose  to  tell. 
She  found  herself  there,  but  how  she  came  there  was  the 
question ;  and  why  she  stood,  and  stood  so  contentedly, 
when  she  knew  that  her  host  should  be  "  distributing  his 
attentions." 

Philip  Truesdail  was  nearly  ten  years  older  than  his 
brother,  and  no  match  for  him  in  any  respect,  if  the  family 
or  family's  friends  were  allowed  to  be  the  judges.  There 
was  a  womanly  tenderness  in  his  large  blue  eyes,  but  they 
received  an  entirely  different  expression  from  the  coal-black 
fringes  shading  them ;  so  that  only  those  on  whom  they  had 
rested  in  compassion  or  affection,  read  anything  there  but 
good-natured  indifference.  His  hair,  too,  was  black ;  and  his 
complexion,  except  a  narrow  strip  belting  the  top  of  the  fore 
head,  was  of  a  deep  tan  color,  enriched  by  the  healthful  blood 
that  had  been  denied  his  brother's  pale,  girlish  cheek.  There 
was  something  in  the  manner  of  the  serious  young  farmer 
17 


194  THE    YOUNG    DREAM. 

so  studiously  watchful  of  her  comfort  and  convenience,  so 
entirely  unselfish  in  its  devotion,  that  irresistibly  attracted  the 
little  lady ;  and  his  language  seemed  to  her  chosen  from  the 
books  which  she  read  and  loved  the  best.  That  was  the  rea 
son  why  she  did  not  propose  returning  to  the  rest  of  the  party, 
when  she  found  they  had  wandered  so  much  farther  than  she 
had  intended,  and  that  was  the  reason  that,  when  she  heard 
approaching  footsteps,  she  almost  unconsciously  led  the  way 
farther  on ;  for  voices  always  assume  a  different  tone  when 
they  speak  to  more  than  one  listener.  Her  quick  eye,  too, 
had  read  at  a  glance  enough  to  interest  her  sympathies  irre 
vocably  on  the  side  of  Philip.  During  the  ten  minutes  that 
she  had  spent  in  the  house,  she  saw  that  his  position  in  the 
family  was  by  no  means  commensurate  with  his  merits ;  and 
this  discovery  performed  almost  as  great  wonders  for  the  un 
pretending  farmer,  as  the  recital  of  his  sufferings  and  "  hair 
breadth  'scapes  "  did  for  the  Moor,  Othello.  Then  he  was  so 
old,  and  so  brotherly.'  Alas  for  Lily  Katy! 

The  day  went  like  a  sweet  dream  to  the  simple-hearted 
girl;  and  when  night  came,  she  had  much,  very  much,  to 
remember,  but  only  a  little  to  tell. 

Katy  went  early  to  her  school-house  the  next  morning,  for 
the  noisy  gayety  of  the  Chifferings  seemed  of  a  sudden  dis 
tasteful  to  her ;  and  she  longed  for  the  stillness  of  some  kind 
of  solitude.  She  was  half-way  there,  when  a  horse  bounded 
from  before  the  door,  and  dashed  up  the  hill  at  a  furious  rate. 
Could  Katy  have  been  right  ?  or  was  there  a  vision  of  yester 
day  yet  in  her  eye  ?  She  thought  the  rider  was  Philip 
Truesdail.  Wondering,  and  doubting,  and  guessing,  and 
asserting  within  her  own  mind,  the  little  school-mistress 
tripped  onward,  all  the  time  watching  the  spot  where  the 
horseman  disappeared  against  the  sky.  She  reached  the 
door,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  latch,  her  eye  still  resting 
upon  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  there  she  stood,  with  her  head 
leaned  against  the  door-post,  and  her  hands  crossed  on  her 
bosom,  until  linsey-woolsey,  bare  feet,  and  dinner-baskets 
peering  in  sight,  reminded  her  that  dreaming  was  not  her 


THE    YOUIs'G    DREAM.  195 

whole  business.  Lily  Katy's  task,  however,  looked  dull  to 
her  that  morning ;  her  little  people  missed  their  accustomed 
smile;  and  she  dropped  herself  into  her  big  chair,  with  a 
half-formed  determination  of  betaking  herself,  with  her  troop 
of  noisy  tyroes,  to  green  walls  and  blue  roof —  a  second  Plato. 
But  what  was  that  lying  upon  her  desk  ?  Surely  none  of  her 
embryo  philosophers  could  make  up  such  a  bouquet !  There 
were  bright  young  rose-buds,  the  slender  green  arms  in  which 
they  had  so  long  nestled  still  clasped  about  them,  as  though 
loath  to  give  them  up  to  an  untried  world,  or  striving  to  shield 
them  from  such  robbers  as  the  sun  and  the  breezes  ;  and  pan- 
sies,  with  their  purple  eyes  full  of  sweet,  loving  thought ;  and 
the  magic  daisy,  spreading  abroad  its  tell-tale  petals,  as 
though  asking  to  be  inquired  of;  —  the  dark,  glossy  green 
of  the  myrtle  threw  into  beautiful  relief  the  snowy  bells  of 
the  lily,  her  own  cognominal ;  and  many  a  delicate  flowering 
thing  peeped  from  beneath  a  sheltering  leaf,  or  sat  in  state 
upon  its  own  slender  stem,  like  a  queen  upon  her  throne. 

Lily  Katy  took  up  the  beautiful  mystery  very  carefully,  and 
turned  it  over  in  her  hands,  and  thrust  the  tips  of  her  taper 
fingers  beneath  the  leaves,  to  discover  all  they  concealed,  and 
wondered  and  guessed  within  herself,  her  lips  all  the  time 
parted  with  a  surprised  smile,  and  a  radiant  light  breaking 
from  her  blue  eyes  and  spreading  itself  over  her  face.  But 
why  did  her  cheek  crimson  and  her  bosom  palpitate  ?  She 
was  thinking  over  the  Thompsons,  and  the  Beltons,  and  her 
other  friends,  but  was  it  that  she  believed  her  gift  came  from 
them  ?  Ah,  no !  Lily  Katy  made  a  great  wonder  of  the 
matter,  even  to  herself;  but  there  was  something  whispering 
her  all  the  time  the  whole  and  exact  truth.  In  peering 
among  the  stems,  she  found  a  slip  of  paper,  with  the  words 
"  FOR  THE  LOVELY  '  LILY  '  "  written  upon  it,  in  a  round,  fair 
hand,  that  Katy  would  have  been  delighted  to  transfer  to  her 
copy-books,  and  that  she  put  carefully  away  between  the 
leaves  of  her  little  morocco-covered  Testament. 

"  The  lovely  Lily  "  said  not  a  word  to  the  ChifTerings  ot 
her  mysterious  bouquet ;  but  it  could  not  have  been  because 


196  THE    YOUNG   DREAM. 

she  set  too  light  a  value  on  it ;  for  never  lingered  life  in 
flowers  so  long  as  in  those. 

That  pic-nic  party  was  the  beginning  of  a  —  friendship. 
Days  and  weeks  passed  away,  and  Philip  Truesdail  and  the 
pretty  school-mistress,  were  to  each  other,  as  people  said,  "  like 
brother  and  sister."  And  they  said,  too,  that  it  was  very  kind 
of  Phil  to  give  so  much  of  his  time  to  Lily  Katy,  since  his 
more  showy  brother  had  taken  such  a  violent  fancy  to  romp 
ing  Nell  Chiffering ;  though,  to  be  sure,  he  could  not  make 
up  for  the  loss  of  Arthur. 

In  large  towns  people  are  annoyed  by  conventionalism ;  in 
villages  by  gossip ;  but  if  you  would  be  entirely  free,  if  you 
would  act  on  all  occasions  precisely  as  you  please,  leave  all 
"  settlements,"  and  go  out  where  it  is  at  least  a  good  half  mile 
from  hearth-stone  to  hearth-stone.  Phil  Truesdail  drove  over 
to  the  school-house  as  often  as  he  listed,  and  took  Katy  into 
his  buggy,  and  nobody  said  a  word  about  it,  except  "  what  a 
good  young  man  is  Phil."  Sometimes  he  came  on  horse 
back,  (the  buggy  being  appropriated  by  his  brother  Arthur,) 
and  then  they  sat  in  the  school-house  together,  and  read  vol 
umes  of  poetry,  and  perhaps  talked  poetry,  until  the  moon 
came  out ;  and  then  those  moonlight  walks  !  Nobody  said  a 
word  about  them,  however.  Certainly  it  was  very  kind  in 
Philip  Truesdail  to  devote  himself  so  exclusively  to  Lily 
Katy ;  for  his  presence  saved  the  poor  school-mistress  many 
a  wearisome  hour.  Oh,  yes  !  kind,  very — to  himself.  To 
him,  this  was  a  strangely  sweet  intercourse ;  he  seemed  to  be 
living  and  moving  in  one  of  those  bewitching  dreams  that 
had  haunted  him  since  boyhood.  Perhaps  there  never  was 
a  man  who  had  reached  his  five-and-twentieth  summer,  pre 
serving  the  singleness  of  heart,  the  simplicity  of  character, 
and  the  guileless  purity  that  marked  this  friend  of  Lily  Katy. 
Born  with  an  eye  for  seeing  and  a  heart  for  feeling,  he  had 
exercised  both  within  the  precincts  of  "  Crow  Hill ;"  and  so 
every  plant  was  known  and  loved,  every  pebble  had  a  familiar 
*ook  to  him,  every  ripple,  every  murmuring  breeze,  and  every 
sweet  feathered  thing,  spoke  a  language  that  he  could  per- 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  197 

feclly  understand.  He  gathered  lessons  of  philosophy  from 
the  field,  and  poetry  from  the  woodland;  then  he  read  of  them 
in  books,  his  own  heart  being  the  crucible  in  which  the  metal 
was  tried,  and  appropriating  only  the  pure  gold.  He  found 
his  companions  and  friends  where  he  guided  the  plough  and 
wielded  the  sickle ;  and  it  was  seldom  that  he  mingled  with 
human  beings,  for  there  was  something  in  their  rude  tones 
that  jarred  upon  the  refined  harmony  of  his  spirit.  But  there 
was  no  discord  in  the  voice  or  sentiments  of  Lily  Katy ;  for 
she  had  just  begun  life,  and  her  nature  was  full  of  the  ro 
mance  of  its  morning.  The  chivalrous  devotion  of  Philip 
Truesdail  had  a  witchery  about  it,  that,  young  as  she  was, 
she  more  than  half  suspected  would  one  day  be  lost ;  and  it 
was  this  single  grain  of  worldly  wisdom,  mingling  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  girlish  fourteen,  that  induced  Lily  Katy  to  shut 
her  eyes  resolutely  upon  everything  tending  to  break  the 
charm.  But  yet,  good  and  gentle  as  Katy  was,  there  was  a 
single  vein  of  coquetry  (innocent,  pleasing  coquetry  to  any 
body  but  Philip  Truesdail)  about  her,  which  originated  many 
a  shadow. 

Katy  was  in  the  garden  at  Crow  Hill,  (for  old  Farmer 
Truesdail  had  daughters  whom  the  school-mistress  sometimes 
visited,)  and  Philip,  as  usual,  was  beside  her.  He  had  platted 
a  wreath,  and  she  stood  smilingly,  like  a  pet  lamb,  while  he 
adjusted  it  among  her  light,  silken  curls ;  but  when  he 
picked,  in  a  marked  manner,  a  rose-bud,  and,  touching  it  to 
his  lips,  was  about  adding  it  to  the  fragrant  tiara,  she  shook 
it  gayly  from  her  head  and  placed  her  foot  upon  it. 

"  Nay,  nay,  cousin  Phil,"  (Katy  always  used  the  con 
venient  prefix,)  "  you  will  spoil  my  head-dress  with  these 
heavy  additions ;  and  I  dare  say  you  have  made  me  look 
like  a  fright  now — hav'n't  you  ?" 

Katy  did  not  note  the  expression — half  of  chagrin,  half 
of  involuntary  pain  —  with  which  her  companion  turned  to 
another  topic ;  and  neither  did  he  note  her  hand  soon  after 
creeping  down  among  the  grass,  to  recover  the  rejected  sym 
bol  of  what  had  never  been  spoken 
17* 


198  THE    YOTTNfc   DREAM. 

Speedily  passed  the  summer ;  the  mellow  autumn  opened, 
and  Philip  Truesdail  was  no  more  the  declared  lover  of  his 
Lily  than  on  the  first  day  they  met.  But  his  tongue  could 
have  said  little  in  comparison  with  what  the  fair  maiden  had 
been  told  a  thousand  times,  in  more  eloquent  language.  And 
she  understood  it  all,  and  thought  it  then  sufficient.  What 
need  was  there  that  Katy  should  grow  wiser  ? 

They  met  for  the  last  time  on  such  terms — the  pretty 
school-mistress  and  her  adopted  cousin. 

"  And  you  will  go  back  to  your  gay  village,  and  forget  this 
place  that  you  have  made  such  a  heaven  to  me,  and  perhaps 
laugh  at  the  rude  farmer  that  has  dared  to  —  to  call  you 
cousin,  Katy." 

Lily  Katy  shook  her  head. 

"  You  will  take  the  light  from  my  heart,  Katy,  when  you 
go  away ;  and  there  will  be  no  melodious  sound  for  my  ear, 
because  your  voice  will  be  making  music  for  others ;  and  no 
sight  to  charm  my  eye,  because  your  eye  will  be  away,  and 
cannot  look  on  to  give  it  its  coloring.  Oh,  Katy  !  I  shall  be 
doubly  lonely  when  you  are  gone  !  " 

There  was  a  dewiness  in  the  young  girl's  eye,  as  she 
turned  it  upon  the  murmurer. 

"  You  will  have  the  woods,  cousin  Philip,  and  the  brook 
that  we  have  sat  beside,  and  the  lilies  that  you  planted  in  the 
corner  of  the  garden,  because,  you  said,  they  were  like  me, 
and  the  rose-bushes  that  I  helped  you  to  trim,  and  the  room 
where  we  have  read  so  many  beautiful  things  together,  and 
all  the  places  where  we  have  been  —  you  will  have  them  all. 
You  should  not  complain,  cousin  Philip." 

"  And  would  you  take  any  of  them  from  me — would  you 
have  them  yours,  if  you  could,  dear  Katy  ?  " 

"Perhaps  —  perhaps — um!"and  Katy  looked  upas  mis 
chievously  as  her  quivering  lip  would  let  her. 

"  I  would  give  you  one  for  a  remembrancer,  if  you  could 
take  it  away,  but  it  would  be  a  hard  thing  for  me  to  spare 
more." 

"And  I  do  not  need  the  remembrancer,  Cousin  Philip; 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  199 

my  memory  never  requires  jogging  where  my  friends  are 
concerned.  But  let  us  change  the  subject,  —  we  are  getting 
mopish." 

"  It  is  our  last  evening,  dear  Katy  —  I  have  never  troubled 
you  by  talking  about  myself  much,  but  now — " 

"  And  do  not  now,  Phil — pray  don't." 

"  Is  it  such  a  very  disagreeable  subject,  then?" 

"  No,  no  !  it  is  too  —  I  mean  it  is  of  course  interesting,  but 
—  there  will  be  time  for  all  that,  cousin  when  you  come  to 
Peltonville." 

"  And  may  I  come,  Katy  ?  "  inquired  the  young  man  with 
a  kindling  eye,  and  holding  back  his  breath  to  catch  the  an 
swer. 

"  May  you  ! "  returned  the  little  lady,  laughing ;  "  you  do 
not  suppose  we  are  so  inhospitable  as  to  shut  the  door  upon 
our  cousins.  But  maybe  you  will  not  wish  to  come,  and  in 
that  case  I  shall  not  urge  you  —  eh,  Cousin  Phil?" 

"  God  bless  you,  Katy !  If  I  could  only  know  that  we 
shall  meet  as  we  part  now !" 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  clear  young  brow  of  Lily  Katy ; 
it  must  have  been  a  foreboding  of  evil,  for  she  replied  almost 
mournfully 

"  People  never  meet  as  they  part,  Philip ;  and  for  one,  I 
wish  there  was  no  such  thing  as  parting." 

The  young  man's  eye  brightened. 

"  And  would  you  be  content  at — where  you  have  spent  the 
summer,  dear  Katy  ? " 

"  I  could  not  find  a  better  place." 

"  And  in  such  company?" 

"  Company  makes  places — nay,  Cousin  Phil,  do  not  thank 
me  too  warmly  I  have  had  a  variety  of  company,  you 
know." 

The  young  man  turned  away  with  an  air  of  disappointment. 

"  Corne  back,  Philip,  come  back,  and  take  that  curl  out  of 
your  lip ;  and,  since  you  are  bent  on  making  me  say  silly 
things  first  hear  me.  The  company  of  my  good  cousin, 


200  THE    YOUNG    DREAM. 

Philip  Truesdail,  is  all  that  would  keep  me  from  Peltonville- 
Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

The  young  man  seized  the  small  hand  that  was  raised  to 
urge  his  return,  and  pressed  it  hastily  to  his  lips,  then  dropped 
it  by  her  side,  and  stood  back  a  moment  to  look  into  her  crim 
soned  face  ;  finally,  advancing  resolutely,  he  bent  his  lips  to 
her  ear,  and  whispered  the  few  heart-warm  words  that  came 
to  them  involuntarily. 

"  I  am  a  little  girl,  only  a  little  girl — you  must  not  talk  to 
me  so,  Cousin  Phil,"  stammered  Katy ;  "  when  I  am  older — " 

"  Will  you  love  me  then,  dear  Katy?" 

"I  —  I  do  not  know.  Don't  get  angry  again,  Philip  !  don't ! 
I  love  you  now  —  with  all  my  heart  —  and  will  forever  and 
ever.  Now  make  the  most  of  that,  and  let  go  my  hand,  for 
I  must  go  into  the  house  this  very  minute." 

Young  Truesdail  would  have  been  better  pleased  had  the 
little  lady  spoken  less  pettishly ;  and  he  resigned  the  hand, 
and  turned  homeward,  with  an  air  that  made  Lily  Katy  ex 
ceedingly  sorry  for  what  she  began  now  to  consider  her  folly. 
She  looked  it  all  in  her  sweet,  childish  face,  as  she  placed  her 
hand  gently  within  his,  and  whispered,  "  I  will  stay  as  long 
as  you  wish,  Philip." 

The  face  of  the  young  farmer  lighted  up  with  joy  ;  for  the 
first  time,  he  drew  the  simple  girl  to  his  heart;  for  the  first 
time,  their  lips  met,  and  then  they  sat  down  on  the  mossed 
bank  together,  and  spent  two  golden  hours  as  hours  were 
never  spent  by  them  before.  When  the  moon  went  down, 
hand  in  hand  they  proceeded  homeward,  and  parted  on  the 
door-stone  of  the  Chifferings,  with  vows  of  everlasting  change- 
lessness. 

Lily  Katy  awoke  next  morning  with  a  confused  recollection 
of  mingled  pleasure  and  mortification,  for  which  she  could 
not  at  first  account.  But  in  the  next  moment  a  crimson  blush 
overspread  her  face ;  and  she  nestled  down,  and  closed  her 
eyes,  feigning  sleep,  for  the  sake  of  being  left  to  her  own 
thoughts.  That  she  was  happy  could  not  be  denied;  but 
with  her  sense  of  happiness  came  the  mortifying  suspicion 


THE    YOUNG   DREAM.  201 

that  she  had  been  won  too  easily.  So  there  she  lay,  her 
pretty  face  half  buried  in  the  pillow,  and  the  other  half 
covered  by  her  small  hand,  and  revolved  in  her  mmd  every 
word  that  had  been  uttered  on  the  previous  evening,  until  she 
satisfied  herself  that  she  had  acted  a  very  unmaidenly  part ; 
and,  moreover,  that  Philip  Truesdail  ought  to  be  punished 
for  leading  her  into  such  folly.  How  dignified  she  would  be 
when  she  next  met  him ! 

During  this  summer,  so  important  to  Lily  Katy,  Mr.  Fol- 
lansbe's  devotion  to  his  country  had  been  rewarded  by  the 
gift  of  the  office  of  county  clerk;  and  it  was  thought  that  his 
salary,  united  with  his  lady's  economy,  would  be  sufficient  for 
the  support  of  his  family.  But  the  accession  of  the  needful 
was  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  accession  of  consequence. 
Now  the  Follansbes  were  invited  everywhere,  and  everybody 
was  proud  of  their  acquaintance ;  and  Lily  Katy  was  too 
beautiful  not  to  receive  a  due  share  of  this  newly  awakened 
homage.  But  did  the  little  belle  forget  her  farmer  lover  ? 
Not  she.  Not  a  buggy-wagon  stopped  at  her  father's  door 
but  her  heart  fluttered  like  a  newly  caged  bird  ;  but  it  was  a 
fortnight,  a  long,  long  fortnight,  before  the  right  buggy  made 
its  appearance.  Katy  saw  it  from  an  upper  window,  and 
clapped  her  little  hands  with  delight.  In  a  moment  she  was 
called  down,  but  she  must  needs  wait  to  dissipate  the  tell-tale 
blushes,  and  send  the  smiles  back  from  her  face  to  her  heart ; 
and  she  must  not  tremble,  not  in  the  least,  for  she  had  resolved 
on  oehaving  with  a  great  deal  of  propriety  this  time. 

"While  Katy  stood  before  her  glass  smoothing  down  her 
features  to  a  proper  degree  of  dernureness,  Philip  Truesdail 
sat  bolt  upright  in  the  room  below,  almost  dreading  to  hear 
the  well-known  sound  of  her  foot ;  wondering  how  he  could 
have  been  so  foolish  as  to  stake  his  happiness  on  such  a  des 
perate  throw,  and  resolving  to  tell  the  child  at  once  that  he 
considered  her  in  no  wise  bound  by  words  which  her  gener 
osity  might  have  prompted  her  to  utter  at  a  moment  when  she 
had  no  time  for  thought. 

With  such  reflections  on  either  side,  is  it  strange  that  they 


202  THE    YOUNG    DREAM. 

met  coldly  ?  that  misunderstanding  followed  misunderstand 
ing?  that  Katy'was  unreasonably  exacting,  though  every 
word  she  uttered  warred  against  her  heart  ?  and  that  Philip 
Truesdail  was  generous  and  self-denying,  as  he  had  always 
been,  and  disdained  to  follow  up  any  advantage  which  he 
might  have  gained  on  that  memorable  moonlight  evening  ? 
Five  minutes  of  entire  confidence  on  both  sides  would  have 
set  all  right ;  but  a  word  unspoken  often  causes  a  life-es 
trangement.  And  so,  is  it  strange  that  Philip  Truesdail  and 
Lily  Katy  parted  that  night  forever  ? 

"Forever  —  forever !"  sobbed  the  poor  girl,  as  she  flung 
herself  on  the  sofa,  even  before  the  echo  of  her  light,  merry 
laugh  had  died  on  the  air. 

It  was  years  before  that  mocking  laugh  died  in  the  ears  of 
Philip  Truesdail. 

"Forever — forever!"  repeated  Lily  Katy,  and  then  she 
promised  herself  that  it  would  not  be  so ;  he  would  come 
back  —  she  knew  Philip  Truesdail  too  well  to  believe  he 
would  leave  her  to  such  misery — he  was  so  kind,  so  con 
siderate,  so  true-hearted,  and  so  forgiving — then  a  fresh  burst 
of  tears  interrupted  her  comforting  reflections. 

The  next  morning,  Lily  Katy  could  not  forbear  telling  her 
mother  how  miserable  she  was  ;  but  all  the  consolation  she 
received  was  commendation  for  the  good  sense  both  evinced 
in  parting  so  amicably  And  so  Katy  had  her  trials  to  bear 
all  alone.  How  she  watched  for  that  little  buggy  till  the 
snow  came !  and  then,  how  she  sat  by  the  window,  and 
looked  along  the  road,  and  wondered  if  she  should  know 
Philip  Truesdail  from  the  top  of  the  hill  in  his  winter  dress. 
But  no  Philip  Truesdail  came,  and  spring  found  Lily  Katy 
still  watching.  By  this  time,  the  fragile  child  had  shot  up 
into  a  tall,  womanly  looking  maiden,  and  there  were  but  few 
that  called  her  Lily  Katy  now.  It  would  have  required  a 
very  superb  lily  to  bear  any  resemblance  to  the  blooming, 
beautiful  Catharine  Follansbe.  But  the  lady's  heart  went 
back,  like  the  dove  to  its  resting  place ;  and,  though  fast  en 
tering  on  her  belle-ship,  she  would  have  given  worlds,  had 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  203 

worlds  been  in  her  gift,  to  have  lived  over  again  her  four 
teenth  summer.  Still,  however,  she  be'ieved  that  Philip 
Truesdail  would  return ;  but  return  he  never  did. 

Years  passed,  and  Mr.  Follansbe  rose  from  a  county  office 
holder  to  the  state  legislature,  and  from  a  legislator  to  a  repre 
sentative  ;  and  simple  Lily  Katy  was  merged  in  the  elegant 
and  fashionable  Miss  Follansbe.  And  was  Philip  Truesdail 
remembered  still  ?  Perhaps.  Those  soft  blue  eyes  flashed 
now  with  pride  and  spirit,  the  delicate  lip  curled  sometimes 
with  scorn,  and  the  beautifully  curved  neck  arched  itself  like 
that  of  a  tropical  bird  conscious  of  its  own  matchless  charms ; 
even  the  voice,  with  its  smooth,  measured  cadences,  sounded 
not  like  the  low,  warbling  tones  of  Lily  Katy ;  and,  in  place 
of  simplicity  and  artless  sentiment,  came  words  of  wit  and 
sometimes  of  wisdom.  Did  this  elegant  creature,  delicate 
and  fastidious  as  she  was,  ever  give  a  thought  to  the  sober- 
faced  farmer  jogging  after  his  plough  behind  the  red  farm 
house  on  Crow  Hill  ?  and  was  that  the  reason  why  she  turned 
so  coldly  from  her  crowd  of  suitors,  and  called  herself  still 
heart-whole  ?  No.  She  never  thought  of  the  rude  farmer, 
earning  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow ;  but  there  was 
away  in  her  heart  of  hearts  an  ideal  image  that  always  stole 
away  the  point  from  any  arrow  that  the  winged  god  might 
send  thither.  This  image  was  originally  that  of  Philip 
Truesdail;  but  she  had  so  renewed  and  moulded  it  over,  that 
it  now  bore  no  resemblance  to  its  former  self.  Who  could 
have  believed  that  the  gay,  heartless  Miss  Follansbe  was 
cherishing  a  deathless  affection  ?  Who  would  believe  that 
half  the  world  are  doing  so,  even  while  they  laugh  at  truth 
and  faith  ? 

Miss  Follansbe  was  entering  on  her  four-and-twentieth 
spring  when  she  went  to  spend  the  green  season  at  her  old 
home  of  Peltonville.  Her  smile  was  eagerly  courted,  and  a 
nod,  even,  was  considered  worth  a  deal  of  scrambling ;  but 
still  people  had  their  remarks  to  make.  The  milliner,  the 
grocer,  and  the  tavern-keeper's  wife,  all  said  she  had  grown 
shamefully  aristocratic ;  and  old  Mrs.  Hudson  winked  her 


204  THE    YOUNG    DREAM 

little  black  eyes  very  meaningly,  as  she  intimated  to  every 
body  that  she  had  seen  the  time  when  the  Follansbes  were 
no  better  than  their  neighbors.  But  the  proud  lady  minded 
none  of  these  things.  The  deeper  the  murmurs,  the  more 
cause  she  gave  for  murmuring.  She  had  been  at  Peltonville 
but  a  few  weeks,  when  she  began  to  feel  an  earnest  desire  to 
visit  the  scene  of  her  first  and  only  school-teaching.  She 
had  not  seen  it  since  the  bright  autumn  day  on  which  she  left 
— and  why?  She  could  have  told  why;  but  no  one  else 
would  have  dreamed  it.  Now  she  would  see  if  the  little 
sacred  spots  she  had  cherished  in  memory  were  the  same ; 
and  so  she  went.  She  recollected  perfectly  well  that  the  old 
school-house  was  small  and  dirty,  and  of  a  weather-painted 
brown ;  but  she  could  scarce  believe  it  could  have  been  so 
small,  and  so  dirty,  and  so  brown,  ten  years  before.  As  for 
the  children,  she  was  confident  that  she  had  never  watched 
over  and  loved  such  ill-looking  ragamuffins  as  they  were. 
And  certainly  there  could  have  been  no  resemblance  between 
the  awkward,  narrow-browed,  square-shouldered  country  girl, 
with  the  shrill  tenor  voice,  that  occupied  the  chair,  and  her 
former  self.  But  the  dingle  behind  the  school-house !  the 
dear  old  \voods  that  pictured  themselves  on  her  inward  eye 
just  as  she  had  left  them!  —  ah!  change  had  been  there. 
Not  a  tree  was  standing.  Was  it  a  tear  that  trembled  on  the 
dark  lashes  of  Miss  Follansbe  ?  If  so,  it  stood  there  but  a 
moment,  though  she  did  not  smile  till  she  had  left  the  school- 
house  behind  the  hill.  The  young  Chifferings  were  married, 
and  the  old  people  lived  with  their  eldest  son ;  the  Beltons 
had  moved  away,  and  the  Thompsons  were  dead,  except  an 
old  woman  that  went  out  sewing  by  the  day.  Miss  Follans 
be  went  on,  and  without  any  settled  purpose  she  directed  the 
driver  to  Crow  Hill.  Perhaps  she  would  go  past — perhaps 
she  would  call.  She  had  heard  that  the  old  people  were 
dead,  and  the  place  was  in  the  possession  of  Philip  Truesdail 
and  one  unmarried  sister.  The  lady's  heart  beat  most  un 
mercifully  against  her  boddice,  as  the  red  farm-house  hove  in 
sight ;  and  she  allowed  her  carriage  to  go  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
beyond  before  she  could  muster  courage  to  give  the  necessary 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  20-5 

order.  Then  the  horses'  heads  were  turned,  and,  in  a  moment 
she  alighted  at  the  door  where  she  had  first  seen  Philip  Trues- 
dail.  But  little  change  had  been  there ;  and  slowly  she  walked 
up  the  narrow  path  between  the  rose-bushes,  and  tried  to  im 
agine  herself  Lily  Katy,  in  the  first  freshness  of  beautiful 
girlhood.  Lightly,  and  almost  timidly,  she  tapped  at  the 
door,  then  more  heavily,"  and  then  she  substituted  her  parasol 
for  her  knuckles ;  but  no  answer  came.  Eaising  the  latch, 
she  stepped  over  the  threshold,  and  found  herself  in  the  well- 
remembered  parlor.  There,  nothing  was  changed,  not  even 
the  position  of  a  chair.  The  mantel-clock  was  ticking  as  of 
yore,  and  the  old-fashioned  vases  stood  on  either  side  of  it, 
with  just  such  flowers  in  them  as  she  had  first  received  from 
Philip  Truesdail.  He  had,  of  course,  arranged  them  that 
morning,  and  Miss  Follansbe  blushed  to  find  herself  appropri 
ating  one  of  the  prettiest;  but  with  a  tremor  in  her  fingers,  she 
fastened  it  in  her  boddice.  She  took  a  book  from  the  table. 
It  was  the  same  she  had  read  with  him  many  a  time,  and 
there  were  traces  of  her  own  pencil  on  it,  and,  between  the 
leaves,  for  a  mark,  a  bit  of  riband  that  she  recollected  clipping 
one  evening  from  her  breast-knot.  What  would  not  the  ele 
gant  lady  have  given  to  be  simple  Lily  Katy  once  more.  Oh, 
how  many  a  heart-ache  is  wrapped  up  in  the  refinements  of 
fashionable  society,  and  the  flippant  follies  of  worldly  wisdom  ? 
Satisfied  that  no  one  was  in  the  house,  Miss  Follansbe  pro 
ceeded  to  the  garden.  How  came  back  every  word  that  had 
been  spoken  there  !  —  every  look,  every  light  pressure  of  the 
hand ;  much  that  she  did  not  rightly  receive  at  the  time,  and 
much  more  that  she  did  not  rightly  comprehend.  And  Miss 
Follansbe  wished  that  she  had  been  born  in  that  neighborhood, 
and  never  "  looked  beyond  the  visual  line  that  girt  it  round." 
But  still  her  lip  remained  firm  and  her  eye  unmoistened  till 
she  came  to  the  little  cluster  of  lilies,  carefully  weeded  and 
that  morning  watered,  that  Philip  Truesdail  had  planted  there 
because  they  looked  like  her,  while  she  stood  by,  and  laugh 
ingly  tried  to  lift  the  spade  that  seemed  such  a  toy  in  his 
hands.  Then  her  calmness  gave  way,  her  dignity  all  was 
18 


206  THE    YOUNG   DREAM. 

gone  ;  and  Miss  Follansbe  leaned  against  the  cherry-tree,  by 
which  she  stood,  and  wept  as  she  had  scarce  done  since 
childhood.  A  rustling  of  the  leaves  startled  her,  and  she 
wiped  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  face,  and  turned  with  her 
usual  self-possessed  air  to  the  intruder.  A  dark-complexioned 
woman,  with  her  hair  blown  over  her  face,  and  a  basket  of 
cowslips  on  her  arm,  stood  among  the  shrubbery,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  large,  bony  hand,  and  peering  earnestly  down 
into  the  garden.  This  should  not  have  been  the  sister  of 
Philip  Truesdail,  but  Miss  Follansbe  recognized  her  as  such 
immediately,  and  half  of  her  touching  recollections  were  dis 
sipated.  The  lady  introduced  herself  at  once,  and  then  suck 
chattering,  and  such  wondering!  Miss  Truesdail  insisted  on 
blowing  the  horn  to  call  her  brother  from  the  field ;  and, 
though  the  lady  said  nay,  she  said  it  so  faintly  that  the  signal 
was  given.  It  would  be  saying  too  much  for  Miss  Follansbe's 
self-control  not  to  own  that  her  heart  bounded,  and  her  color 
went  and  came  like  a  bashful  school-girl's  at  the  prospect  of 
meeting  her  early  lover,  face  to  face,  after  the  lapse  of  ten 
years.  And  when  Miss  Truesdail  exclaimed,  "There  he 
comes  ! "  it  was  some  minutes  before  she  ventured  to  turn  her 
eyes  in  the  direction  designated.  But  when  she  did  !  Miss 
Follansbe  could  scarce  credit  the  evidence  of  her  senses  ;  she 
could  not  suppress  a  smile.  With  an  old  torn  straw  hat  in 
one  hand,  and  the  other  supporting  a  hoe  upon  the  shoulder 
of  his  striped  frock,  his  figure  stooping,  and  his  eye  fixed 
upon  the  ground,  walked  the  man  that  Miss  Truesdail  had 
called  her  brother.  He  might  have  been  mistaken  for  her 
father,  and  she  was  anything  but  youthful.  Miss  Follansbe 
thought  of  the  flowers  in  the  parlor,  and  the  carefully  trimmed 
shrubbery,  and  tried  to  argue  herself  into  receiving  her  old 
lover  as  what  he  really  was,  rather  than  as  what  he  appeared. 
He  started  \vhen  he  heard  the  lady's  name,  and  a  quick  flush 
passed  over  his  face  ;  but  it  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  he 
sat  down  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  conversed  calmly  and 
sensibly,  without  apparently  once  remembering  that  they  had 
ever  met  before.  And  a  stranger  would  have  thought  they 
never  had,  till  Miss  Truesdail  made  mention  of  the  fact. 


THE    YOUNG    DREAM.  207 

*  You  would  n't  have  known  Miss  Follansbe,  Philip  ?  " 

The  man  looked  up. 

"  She  is  very  much  changed." 

"  There  is  n't  much  left  like  Lily  Katy,"  pursued  the  spin 
ster,  unconscious  of  the  recollections  she  was  awakening. 

Her  auditors  were  both  silent. 

"  But  Philip  is  quite  the  same  —  some  people  never  do 
change  —  I  don't  see  as  he  is  altered  in  the  least  from  what 
he  was  ten  years  ago  —  do  you,  Miss  Follansbe  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  echoed  Miss  Follansbe,  with  a  demure 
look,  which  might  be  attributed  either  to  the  command  she 
had  obtained  over  the  muscles  of  her  face,  or  to  a  strange 
absence  of  mind. 

There  was  a  proud  flash  in  Philip  Truesdail's  eye,  as  he 
turned  it  for  the  first  time  full  on  the  metamorphosed  school 
mistress. 

"  Nay,  lady,"  he  answered,  "  even  your  system,  the  rules 
that  govern  you  in  the  gay  world,  require  not  this  sacrifice  of 
truth.  Say  that  I  am  changed.  Why  should  I  not  be,  as 
well  as  yourself?  My  shoulders  are  bent,  my  hair  is  grizzled, 
my  features  are  sharp,  and  there  are  wrinkles  on  my'lipre- 
head ;  but  that  is  not  all  —  I  am  changed  more  than  that,  and 
from  this  hour  more  than  ever.  But  these  are  trifling  things 
to  you,  Miss  Follansbe." 

It  was  strange  with  what  ease  Philip  Truesdail  turned  to 
other  subjects,  and  with  what  fluency  he  conversed,  prevent 
ing  the  possibility  of  his  sister's  introducing  topics  more  per 
sonal.  In  a  half  hour  Miss  Follansbe  was  handed  into  her 
carriage  by  the  bachelor  farmer ;  and,  while  she  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand,  and  mused  over  the  strange  inconsistency 
of  her  own  character,  Philip  Truesdail  went  whistling  back 
to  his  labor.  Neither  was  happy  and  neither  was  sad ;  both 
were  in  a  state  of  discomfort.  They  had  been  awakened  from 
a  long  cherished  dream,  and  the  last  spark  of  romance  was 
extinguished  in  the  bosoms  of  both. 

And  so  Miss  Follansbe  went  back  to  the  world  again ;  and 
Philip  Truesdail  to  his  plough  and  his  flowers,  and  his  sim 
plicity. 


208 


THE    BANK    NOTE. 

"  A  PINK  barege,  with  tucks  —  or  a  flounce  —  no  !  I  like 
tucks  better;  let  me  think — how  many  ?  Half  a  dozen  little 
ones  look  fixed  up;  one  deep  one,  doubling  the  whole  skirt, 
is  very  suitable  for  mamma,  but  it  would  be  rather  too  heavy, 
too  dignified  for  me  ;  then  two  of  moderate  size — oh  !  they 
are  so  common !  Never  mind !  Madam  Dufraneau  shall 
decide  that  matter.  But  I  will  have  the  dress,  at  any  rate, 
and  it  shall  be  pink — just  the  palest  and  most  delicate  in  the 
world — but  pink  it  shall  be,  because  of  my  dark  eyes  and 
hair,  and  fair  complexion." 

So  soliloquized  pretty  Rosa  Warner,  a  good-natured, 
thoughtless  miss,  of  some  thirteen  summers,  whose  only 
troublous  reflection  was  occasioned  by  the  distance  of  bright 
sixteen,  when  her  mother  had  promised  she  should  be  allowed 
to  abolish  short  dresses,  and  gather  up  her  jetty  curls  into  a 
comb.  And  this  would,  indeed,  be  quite  an  era  in  the  life 
of  the  little  lady;  —  for  she  had  no  small  pretensions  to  beauty, 
and  was,  moreover,  the  only  child  of  a  very  wealthy  father 
and  a  very  fashionable  mother.  Oh  !  what  visions  she  had 
of  the  future  ! 

"  Yes,  I  will  have  the  pink  barege,"  repeated  Miss  Rosa ; 
and  taking  another  peep  at  the  mirror,  to  see  that  her  dress 
would  fully  bear  the  scrutiny  of  her  mother's  critical  eye,  she 
tripped  gayly  down  stairs,  reached  the  landing  with  a  light 
bound,  and  then,  smoothing  her  features  and  her  hair  at  the 
same  time,  placed  her  hand  very  demurely  on  the  knob  of 
the  breakfast-room  door.  Her  mother  was  there  before  her, 
and  Rosa  heard  her  say,  as  she  entered,  "  I  have  no  occa 
sion  for  employing  a  stranger." 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  pale,  thin  girl,  who  stood 
just  inside  the  door,  with  her  head  bent  down,  and  the  fingers 
of  her  ungloved  hand  trembling  on  the  back  of  a  chair  before 
her. 


THE    BANK    NOTE.  209 

"  Perhaps,"  returned  the  girl,  half  hesitatingly,  "  perhaps 
those  you  employ  need  work  less  than  I." 

"  i  doubt  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Warner ;  "  a  seamstress  always 
needs  work,  and  those  whom  I  have  tried,  and  know  to  be 
deserving,  I  esteem  it  my  duty  to  give  the  preference  to. 
There  is  sewing  enough  to  be  done,  and  no  one  who  can  use 
the  needle  skilfully  need  long  go  begging  for  work." 

A  sensation  as  of  choking  seemed  struggling  in  the  throat 
of  the  girl,  and  her  fingers  now  clutched  convulsively  at  the 
chair. 

"  I  hope  you  may  succeed  in  obtaining  employment,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Warner,  consolingly;  "but  really — " 

"  If  you  would  but  try  me,  lady !"  sobbed  the  girl.  "  We 
are  very  poor — God  knows  if  we  shall  starve!"  she  mur 
mured,  "and  my  poor,  poor  mother  ! " 

Mrs.  Warner  did  not  hear  the  last  words,  for  Rosa,  not 
withstanding  her  habitual  fear  of  her  mother,  had  glided  up 
to  her,  and  whispered  "  that  Mary  Jones  could  not  come  for 
a  week,  at  least,  and  Alice  Weaver  was  really  to  be  married 
in  a  fortnight."  This  information  induced  Mrs.  Warner  to 
look  again  at  the  girl  who  stood  trembling  before  her. 

"Your  name  I  think  you  gave  as  Ellen  Vaughn  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  you  live  on  S street  ?" 

"We  live  there  now." 

"Can  you  make  dresses  ?" 

"Not  well;  I  should  not  like  to  try." 

"What  can  you  do?" 

"Almost  every  kind  of  needle-work — fancy  and  plain." 

"Embroidery?"  asked  Mrs.  Warner,  with  an  incredulous 
smile. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  can  you  do  nothing  with  dresses ?" 

"Not  nice  ones." 

"  Could  you  put  together  a  morning  gown  after  it  was 
fitted?" 

yes 


210  THE    BANK    NOTE. 

"  And  make  school-dresses  for  my  daughter  ? " 

"  I  have  done  it  for  others." 

"  For  whom  have  you  worked  ? " 

"For  no  one  in  INew  York,  lady.  We  left  a  country  vil 
lage,  a  few  weeks  ago,  thinking  we  should  do  better  here  ; 
but  it  was  all  a  mistake.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  work  in 
the  city,  I  dare  say,  but  there  are  so  many  hands  to  do  it. 
Oh  !  I  am  very  sorry  we  came  !"  sighed  Ellen  Vaughn,  shak 
ing  her  head  slowly. 

"  It  is  a  common  mistake,"  observed  Mrs.  Warner ;  "  peo 
ple  seldom  'let  well  alone.'  " 

The  girl  opened  her  lips  as  though  to  reply,  but  was 
checked  by  a  "second  thought."  Mrs.  Warner  seemed  con 
sidering  the  subject  a  moment,  and  finally  she  decided.  "  I 
will  employ  you  to-day,  at  least.  Rosa,  show  Miss  Vaughn 
to  the  back  sitting-room,  and  give  her  the  skirt  of  your  mus 
lin  dress ;  I  will  see  her  before  that  is  done." 

Rosa  obeyed ;  and  the  girl,  turning  back  and  hesitating  for 
a  moment,  as  though  there  had  been  something  more  she 
would  have  asked  if  she  dared,  slowly  followed. 

Mrs.  Warner,  as  we  have  before  said,  was  a  very  fashion 
able  lady ;  yet  she  possessed  more  real  feeling,  more  heart 
and  soul,  if  one  could  only  find  the  way  to  it,  than  would 
serve  a  whole  clique  of  the  ordinary  stamp  of  fashionables. 
But  there  was  one  marked  peculiarity  about  Mrs.  Warner's 
feeling  ;  it  was  not  only  capricious,  but  it  would  not  be  led. 
She  was  quick  and  ardent  if  left  to  her  own  impulses,  but 
where  others  felt  the  most  deeply,  she  manifested  a  strange 
obtuseness  ;  and  when  she  had  reason  to  believe  that  people 
thought  she  ought  to  be  affected,  she  was  cold  and  calm  as  a 
winter  moonlight.  Yet  but  few  persons  could  have  had  the 
hardihood  to  say  that  Mrs.  Warner  was  whimsical.  She 
was  so  evidently  governed,  even  in  her  eccentricities,  by  high 
moral  principle ;  there  was  so  much  that  was  noble  and  gen 
erous  in  her  nature ;  and  her  personal  presence  was  so  im 
posing,  that,  between  her  pride  and  her  finer  qualities,  she 
was  generally  too  much  feared  and  loved  to  be  considered 


THE    BANK    NOTE.  211 

a  proper  subject  for  the  dissecting  knife  of  gossips.  Mrs 
Warner  owed  her  entire  amount  of  peculiarities  to  a  strong 
will  that  had  never  been  checked,  and  a  full  consciousness  of 
her  own  powers,  both  natural  and  social,  slightly  modified  by 
conventionalism,  and  rendered  fitful  by  occasional  visitations 
of  worldly  wisdom.  A  more  impulsive  creature  than  she  was 
in  childhood  never  existed  ;  but,  on  mingling  with  the  world, 
it  had  been  her  misfortune  to  meet  with  imposition  oftener 
than  gratitude.  It  was  thus  that  she  had  learned  a  kind  of 
suspicion,  which  frequently  made  her  unjust ;  and  it  was  not 
unusual  for  her  to  say  and  do  things  worthy  of  the  most  iron- 
hearted.  In  her  family  she  was  kind,  but  authoritative  ;  and 
neither  Rosa,  nor  the  two  cousins  dwelling  under  the  roof 
with  her,  thought  it  by  any  means  a  minor  matter  to  encoun 
ter  her  frown.  And,  if  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  no  pleasant 
thought  to  Mr.  Warner  that  he  had  incurred  his  lady's  dis 
pleasure.  To  be  sure  she  was  no  virago ;  she  never  raised 
her  voice  high,  nor  did  she  ever  murmur  or  chide  him. 
These  are  the  resorts  of  weakness.  But  there  was  something 
in  the  fiery  flash  of  that  big  black  eye,  in  the  curl  of  the  short 
upper  lip,  in  the  deliberate  straightening  up  of  the  fine  Gre 
cian  figure  —  and  the  biting  sarcasm  of  the  single  sentence,  (she 
never  deigned  to  utter  more,)  dropping  with  such  bitterness 
from  lips  that  could  smile  most  sweetly,  which  any  man  would 
gladly  avoid. 

Rosa  Warner  accompanied  the  seamstress  to  the  room  des 
ignated,  without  speaking  a  word ;  for  her  gayety  felt  itself 
rebuked  in  the  presence  of  sorrow,  and  the  easy,  merry- 
hearted  child  grew  timid  and  thoughtful.  She  took  with  a  very 
gentle  hand  the  girl's  bonnet,  and  selected  the  easiest  chair, 
and  brought  an  ottoman  for  her  feet ;  and  then  she  adjusted 
the  shutters  with  unusual  care,  and  looked  about  to  see  that 
the  room  was  pleasant  as  well  as  comfortable,  before  she 
brought  the  work  as  directed  by  her  mother. 

"  You  will  find  the  sewing  very  light,  Miss  Vaughn,"  she 
said,  kindly,  on  presenting  it,  "  and  you  need  make  no  haste  ; 
it  will  be  a  good  many  days  before  I  need  the  dress."  And, 


212  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

without  waiting  a  reply,  she  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and 
made  her  way  down  to  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Poor  girl ! "  thought  Rosa  Warner,  as  she  went,  "  she 
must  be  very  unhappy.  Her  eyes  look  as  though  she  had 
cried  a  week.  I  never  could  bear  tears,  they  make  a  simple 
ton  of  me.  Dear !  dear !  how  I  should  hate  to  be  a  sewing 
girl,  particularly  for  mamma ;  her  eyes  would  scare  me  into 
doing  everything  wrong.  What  fine  eyes  mamma  has, 
though !  I  hope  mine  will  be  like  them ;  they  are  almost  as 
dark  now,  but  they  cannot  flash  so.  I  think  mamma  would 
make  a  better  queen  than  Victoria.  Cousin  Will  called  her 
a  complete  Zenobia.  That  I  should  let  Will  know  what  a 
fool  I  am  !  I  declare,  there  is  no  use  at  all  in  studying  his 
tory  at  school  —  one  never  knows  anything  about  it." 

Rosa  had  proceeded  so  far  in  her  soliloquy,  when  the 
thought  of  the  pink  barege  entered  her  giddy  little  head,  and 
immediately  every  other  thought  left  it.  She  even  forgot  to 
say  good  morning  to  her  father  and  cousins  ;  a  neglect  of 
proper  etiquette  for  which  she  was  duly  reproved. 

Mrs.  Warner  was  not  in  a  very  good  humor  this  morning ; 
a  state  of  feeling  to  which  the  information  that  had  induced 
her  to  engage  the  seamstress  contributed  not  a  little ;  for  it 
annoyed  her  exceedingly  to  find  that  Mary  Jones  and  Alice 
Weaver  had  presumed  to  exhibit  so  much  independence. 
What  right  had  Mary  Jones  to  engage  work  of  other  people 
until  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Warner  did  not  want  her,  when  she 
owed  the  ability  to  obtain  work  at  all,  to  that  lady's  influence? 
And  what  right  had  Alice  Weaver  to  be  married,  just  as  she 
had  learned  to  support  herself  handsomely  ?  She  would, 
without  doubt,  tie  herself  to  some  miserable  fellow  who  could 
not  take  care  of  himself,  and  then  would  come  the  old  story 
of  a  suffering  family.  It  was  vexatious  that  people  whom 
Mrs.  Warner  had  obliged,  would  not  submit  themselves  en 
tirely  to  her  guidance ;  consent  to  become  automata  in  her 
hands,  and  find  their  happiness  in  the  pursuits  which  she 
decided  ought  to  make  them  happy.  It  was  this  perverse- 
ness,  which  would  now  and  then  exhibit  itself,  in  spite  of  the 


THE    BANK    NOTE.  213 

general  empire  enjoyed  by  Mrs.  Warner,  that  had  this  morn 
ing  vexed  and  annoyed  her ;  and  a  great  share  of  this  vexa 
tion  was  likely  to  fall  on  the  head  of  the  new  seamstress,  for 
the  reason  that  the  old  ones  had,  in  the  lady's  view  of  the 
subject,  exhibited  a  strange  lack  of  gratitude.  In  short,  Mrs. 
Warner  had  donned  a  new  fit  of  worldly  wisdom,  and  poor 
Ellen  Vaughn,  would,  probably,  suffer  from  it. 

Full  of  the  pink  barege,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over, 
Rosa  had  a  long,  and  confidential  communication  with  her 
father.  He  was  not  difficult  of  persuasion ;  and,  though  he 
rallied  her  a  little  on  her  extravagance,  and  played  off  for  the 
sake  of  listening  to  her  pretty  arguments,  he  at  last  put  the 
money  into  her  hand,  and  referred  her  to  her  mother.  This 
was  much  the  most  delicate  part  of  the  negotiation;  for, 
though  Rosa  was  seldom  denied  a  gratification  of  this  charac 
ter,  and  felt  now  pretty  confident  as  to  the  result,  yet  she  stood 
too  much  in  awe  of  her  mother  to  feel  much  pleasure  in  ask 
ing  a  favor.  Notwithstanding,  when  the  favor  was  granted, 
she  always  wondered  that  she  ever  could  have  hesitated. 
Now,  however,  she  was  as  much  astonished  by  a  prompt 
negative,  as  her  lady  mother  was  at  her  vanity  and  presump 
tion  ;  and  she  put  the  money  back  into  her  father's  hand  with 
a  sigh,  which  went  to  .the  good  man's  heart.  Rosa  did  not 
pay  much  attention  to  Ellen  Vaughn  that  day,  for  she  was 
sure  that  no  trials  could  equal  her  own  ;  and  she  was  quite 
disgusted  that  any  one  who  had  not  missed  the  chance  of 
having  a  pink  barege  frock,  should  presume  to  be  miserable. 
As  evening  drew  near,  however,  a  morning  twilight  began 
gradually  to  soften  down  the  shadows  on  the  face  of  Miss 
Rosa,  and  she  did  at  last  emerge  from  the  clouds  sufficiently 
to  bestow  one  thought  on  poor  Ellen  Vaughn.  It  was  as  she 
stood  by  the  door,  bonnet  in  hand,  fingers  fidgeting  with  the 
latch,  and  the  toe  of  her  well  worn  shoe  digging  into  the 
carpet. 

"  You  may  come  again  in  the  morning,  if  you  wish,"  said 
Mrs.  Warner,  "  as  early  as  eight,  recollect,  and  if  you  do  as 
well  as  you  have  to-day  — " 


214  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

The  lady  checked  herself  before  the  promise  of  patronage 
was  made ;  for,  visions  of  the  ungrateful  Mary  Jones  and 
Alice  Weaver  passed  before  her  mind's  eye,  and  recalled,  in 
a  trice,  all  her  worldly  wisdom. 

"  Please,  madam,"  stammered  Ellen  Vaughn,  after  waiting 
a  little  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence ;  and  then  she  rat 
tled  the  door-latch,  and  dug  her  toe  into  the  carpet  more  in 
dustriously  than  ever. 

At  another  time  Mrs.  Warner  would  have  encouraged  the 
poor  girl  to  speak  on,  but  now  she  was  in  one  of  her  unrea 
sonably  severe  moods ;  so  she  only  fixed  her  black  eye  (in 
tensely  and  burningly  black  it  was)  on  her  in  silence.  Ellen 
quailed  under  it ;  and,  as  she  did  so,  the  short  upper  lip 
began  to  curl ;  for  Mrs.  Warner  is  not  the  first  individual  who 
has  mistaken  confusion  of  manner,  arising  from  timidity  or 
trouble,  for  the  evidence  of  conscious  guiltiness.  The  poor 
girl  seemed  ready  to  sink  to  the  floor,  from  excess  of  agita 
tion  ;  but  at  last,  making  a  desperate  effort,  she  faltered  out, 
"  if  you  would  only  let  me  take  the  work  home,  lady  ! " 

"Take  it  home?" 

"  My  mother  is  sick,  and — " 

"  Very  sick?" 

"  I  hope  not  dangerously  —  indeed,  I  do  not  know  — " 

"  You  have  no  physician,  then  ?" 

"  No,  lady,  the  poor  cannot  always  — " 

"  The  poor  will  receive  the  kindness  they  merit ;  this  is 
not  a  country  where  the  poor  will  be  allowed  to  suffer,  unless 
they  bring  suffering  on  themselves." 

"Ah!  lady — "  began  Ellen  Vaughn,  but  Mrs.  Warner's 
eye  rested  on  her  with  such  a  look  of  cold  inquiry,  that  she 
could  not  finish. 

<f  Have  you  sisters,  Miss  Vaughn?" 

"  Two  little  girls  —  the  eldest  only  seven." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  leave  your  mother  with  them  ?" 

"  N —  n  —  o  !  it  is  not  so  pleasant  for  her — " 

"  But  it  is  better  for  her,  and  for  you  too.     Here  you  have 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  215 

a  pleasant  room,  and  nothing  to  disturb  you ;  but  if  you  were 
there,  you  would  have  your  attention  constantly  distracted." 

"  Oh  !  I  would  do  as  much  !  I  am  sure  I  could  have  — " 

"  Nobody  can  do  two  things  at  a  time,  and  do  them  both 
well ;  and  I  should  not  dare  trust  my  work  with  you  under 
such  circumstances ;"  and  Mrs.  Warner  turned  away,  as 
though  she  considered  the  matter  decided.  Ellen  Vaughn 
waited  for  a  moment,  as  though  unwilling  to  let  the  subject 
drop,  and  Rosa  longed  to  interfere  in  her  favor ;  but  neither 
had  the  courage  to  speak,  and  so  the  young  girl  turned  lin- 
geringly  from  the  door. 

"  I  do  not  like  that  girl's  face,"  observed  Mrs.  Warner ; 
"  she  has  a  downcast  look,  and  a  sly,  hesitating  manner,  that 
shows  she  has  something  to  conceal.  Give  me  a  frank,  open 
countenance ;  there  is  always  hope  for  such  people," 

Rosa  wanted  to  say  that  a  downcast  heart,  might  be  the 
occasion  of  a  downcast  look ;  but  she  knew  that  her  mother 
considered  her  physiognomical  observations  (as  indeed  who 
does  not  ?)  infallible  ;  and  she  obeyed  the  dictates  of  prudence. 

In  the  morning,  Ellen  Vaughn  again  made  her  appearance, 
but  paler  and  sadder  even  than  on  the  day  previous  ;  and  this 
day  Rosa  lingered  pityingly  around  her,  longing  to  ask  the 
cause  of  her  sadness,  but  restrained,  in  part  by  timidity,  in 
part  by  delicacy. 

"  If  she  would  only  tell,  perhaps  I  could  do  something  for 
her,"  thought  the  sympathizing  child ;  but  to  ask  her  to  tell, 
required  more  courage  than  good-natured  little  Rosa  Warner 
could  muster. 

"  That  girl  will  worry  my  life  away,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Warner,  in  positive  ill-humor,  after  Ellen  Vaughn  had  com 
pleted  her  second  day.  "  Her  whining  and  teazing  are  too 
much  to  bear  ! " 

Rosa  and  her  two  cousins  dropped  book  and  pencil  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  She  insists  on  having  her  pay  every  evening,  and  her 
stammering  and  whining  are  really  provoking." 


216  THE    BANK    NOTE, 

"  Would  it  be  inconvenient  to  pay  her  every  evening, 
mamma  ?  "  Rosa  ventured  to  inquire. 

"  Inconvenient !  why  it  would  be  a  positive  injury  to  her. 
She  would  spend  the  money,  as  such  people  always  do,  as 
fast  as  she  got  it." 

The  heart,  with  the  fresh,  pure  dew  of  its  morning  upon  it, 
is  much  wiser  than  any  head ;  and  simple,  artless  Rosa 
Warner,  in  the  sight  of  angels,  was  this  evening  far  nearer 
the  "  hid  treasure  "  than  was  her  shrewd,  honored  lady  moth 
er.  But  Rosa  could  not  gather  courage  to  say  to  her  mother, 
that  Ellen  Vaughn  might  need  the  money  as  fast  as  she 
earned  it,  or  faster ;  that  her  stammering  was  occasioned  by 
timidity,  which  none  better  than  Mrs.  Warner  could  inspire  ; 
and  that  in  reality  she  had  a  right  to  demand  her  honest 
wages  when  she  chose.  No  !  No  !  Rosa  would  sooner  have 
encountered  a  fiery  dragon  than  the  glance  of  those  black 
eyes,  after  she  had  presumed  to  intimate  that  there  was  a  bare 
possibility  of  her  mother's  having  come  to  a  hasty  conclusion. 
So  Rosa  was  silent ;  but  she  resolved  in  secret  to  win  the 
confidence  of  the  poor  seamstress  the  next  day. 

There  was  a  haggard  look,  and  a  harassed,  almost  wild 
expression,  on  the  countenance  of  Ellen  Vaughn,  when  she 
took  her  seat  in  the  little  sitting-room  in  the  morning,  which 
Mrs.  Warner  herself  observed.  The  lady  even  condescended, 
notwithstanding  her  firmly  fixed  opinion  of  the  young  girl's 
unworthiness,  to  make  some  kind  inquiries  ;  but  there  is  a 
spirit,  even  in  the  gentlest  natures,  which  will  not  be  pressed 
too  far,  and  the  feelings  of  resentment  swelling  in  the  bosom 
of  poor  Ellen  Vaughn,  were  more  in  accordance  with  her  par 
tial  views  of  Mrs.  Warner's  injustice,  than  with  her  meek, 
forbearing,  uncomplaining  disposition.  She  answered  her 
questions  in  cold  monosyllables,  and,  raising  her  work  that 
her  employer  might  not  note  the  misery  that  ivould  make 
itself  visible  in  her  face,  she  plied  her  needle  with  nervous 
earnestness.  As  for  Rosa,  she  stood  aghast  at  such  a  display 
of  ill-nature  in  one  who  had  so  warmly  enlisted  her  sympa- 
tnies  ;  and  she  revolved  the  subject  in  her  mind  all  day,  com 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  217 

ing  to  the  conclusion  at  night,  which  she  had  seldom  doubted 
—  that  her  mother  was  always  right.  But,  notwithstanding 
all  this,  her  heart  yet  pleaded  strongly  in  favor  of  poor  Ellen 
Vaughn. 

Thus  passed  another  day,  and  Eosa  had  as  yet  made  no 
advances  towards  gaining  the  confidence  of  the  seamstress. 
About  the  hour,  however,  when  the  latter  usually  took  her 
leave,  a  bright  thought  somehow  found  its  way  into  the 
usually  unthinking  head  of  the  little  lady.  She  suddenly 
remembered  that  it  was  the  most  common  thing  in  the  world 
to  inquire  for  the  sick,  and  this  might  lead  to  a  full  revelation 
of  all  she  wished  to  know ;  and,  moreover,  it  occurred  to  her 
that  if  Miss  Vaughn  should  acknowledge  herself  to  be  really 
in  want,  it  would  require  but  one  of  her  own  irresistible  smiles 
to  induce  the  cook  to  supply  her  with  a  basket  of  good  things 
every  evening.  Full  of  these  thoughts,  so  rational  as  scarcely 
to  feel  at  home  in  that  careless  little  head,  Miss  Rosa  cast  aside 
the  worsteds  that  she  had  been  assorting,  and  tripped  away  to 
the  back  sitting-room.  Her  step  was  as  light  as  a  fairy's; 
and  though  she  had  hummed  the  fragment  of  a  tune  at  first 
starting,  it  ceased  as  soon  as  she  left  the  parlor,  and  she 
reached  the  back  sitting-room  without  having  attracted  the 
attention  of  its  occupant.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  Rosa 
paused,  like  the  unpractised  little  girl  that  she  was,  to  con 
sider  what  she  should  say.  She  did  not  intend  to  be  a  spy 
upon  the  seamstress,  but  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  she 
should  turn  her  eyes  towards  the  crevice  in  the  door  ;  and  as 
she  did  so,  they  fell  upon  the  shadow  of  a  person  who  seemed 
to  be  standing  by  her  mother's  escritoir.  The  person  herself 
(for  it  was  the  shadow  of  a  woman)  was  invisible ;  but  Rosa 
thought  at  once  of  the  seamstress,  and  at  the  same  time  she 
recollected  seeing  her  mother  with  a  bank  note  between  her 
fingers  while  writing  a  letter,  an  hour  previous.  She  had 
noted,  too,  even  then,  a  strange  look  in  the  face  of  Ellen 
Vaughn,  that  showed  she  also  saw  it ;  and  had  observed  her 
turn  away  her  head  after  a  single  glance,  and  press  her  palms 
heavily  on  her  eye-lids,  with  an  exhibition  of  feeling  which 
19 


218  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

she  could  in  no  wise  interpret.  Then  Mrs.  Warner  was 
called  suddenly  away,  and  Ellen  Vaughn  turned  her  back 
upon  the  escritoir,  and  applied  herself  to  her  needle  as  though 
she  had  no  thought  disconnected  from  the  unfinished  garment 
in  her  hand.  All  these  recollections  came  crowding  upon 
the  mind  of  the  little  girl,  with  a  bewildering  power.  She 
attempted  to  move,  but  her  feet  seemed  fastened  to  the  floor  ; 
to  turn  her  head,  but  her  eyes  would  fix  themselves  on  that 
shadow.  Rosa  would  not  have  believed,  an  hour  before,  that 
anything  short  of  imminent  danger  to  herself  could  frighten 
her  so.  But  now  the  moving  of  the  shadow*  sent  her  heart 
fluttering  into  her  throat ;  and  when  Ellen  Vaughn  immedi 
ately  after  stepped  across  her  line  of  vision,  and  disappeared 
on  the  other  side,  she  could  scarcely  suppress  a  scream. 
Should  she  tell  her  mother?  But  what  had  she  to  tell? 
She  had  seen  only  a  shadow,  and  if  it  were  Ellen  Vaughn's, 
she  might  have  been  looking  at  a  book  or  adjusting  her  hair 
at  the  mirror.  Her  mother's  escritoir  was  not  the  only  thing 
in  that  part  of  the  room.  So  reasoned  Rosa,  meanwhile 
drawing  back  into  the  shadow  of  an  opened  door  beyond, 
though  her  trembling  limbs  could  scarce  support  her  weight, 
and  the  beatings  of  her  heart  sounded  to  her  frightened  ear 
like  the  heavy  strokes  of  a  muffled  bell.  She  had  scarce 
gained  this  concealment,  when  the  sitting-room  door  was 
pushed  open  cautiously;  the  ashen  face  of  the  seamstress 
peered  forth,  and  her  perturbed  eye  wandered  up  and  down 
the  hall  with  a  quick,  startled  glance,  as  though  she  was 
afraid  that  the  stairs  and  tables  would  find  mouths  to  witness 
against  her.  One  white,  shaking  hand,  clutched  the  bosom 
of  her  dress,  as  though  determined  to  defend  her  terrible 
secret,  and  the  other  was  pressed  against  her  haggard  fore 
head,  while  two  or  three  successive  shivers  passed  over  her 
whole  frame.  She  trembled  and  reeled  from  side  to  side  as 
she  passed  along  the  hall,  starting  at  every  sound,  and  turn 
ing  with  a  scared  look  to  gaze  at  each  shadow  that  lay  across 
her  way,  until  she  reached  the  door.  Then,  casting  one 
hasty  glance  around  her,  she  slipped  through  the  opening 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  219 

and  closed  it  with  a  nervous  quickness.  Rosa  noted  all  this; 
and,  if  she  had  been  the  guilty  one,  she  could  not  have  trem 
bled  more,  or  turned  paler.  Lightly  she  glided  forth  from 
her  place  of  concealment,  and  hurried  to  her  mother's  escri- 
toir.  The  half-written  letter  was  there,  and  the  pen,  with 
the  ink  scarcely  dried  upon  it,  but  the  bank  note  had  disap 
peared.  What  a  faint,  horrible  feeling,  crept  to  the  heart  of 
Rosa  Warner !  Not  that  she  never  heard  of  a  theft  before, 
but  she  had  never  been  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  one  — 
never  seen  it  committed.  Should  she  go  to  her  mother  now, 
and  have  the  girl  arrested  in  the  public  street,  with  that  pale 
face  and  shaking  hand  to  evidence  against  her  ?  Immediately 
rose  before  her  the  agonized  look  of  poor  Ellen  Vaughn  ;  and 
then  she  thought  of  her,  dragged  away  to  prison,  while  per 
haps  the  sick  mother  and  the  two  little  sisters  of  whom  she 
had  spoken  were  starving.  True,  it  was  right  that  the  crime 
should  be  exposed,  but  she  could  not  do  it.  She  should  never 
sleep  again,  if  she  allowed  her  hand  to  unseal  the  vial  so  full 
of  misery.  An  older  than  herself  must  hold  the  balance  that 
was  to  mete  out  justice;  the  tear-gem  of  mercy  was  a  fitter  or 
nament  for  one  so  young  to  wear.  Rosa  did  not  think  these 
thoughts  in  these  words,  but  the  result  was  strikingly  like  ; 
and  yet,  though  she  fully  persuaded  herself  that  no  one  need 
know  what  she  had  seen,  her  heart  was  heavy  with  its  secret. 
These  considerations  had  occupied  scarce  a  moment,  and  now 
another  project  entered  her  head.  She  would  know  what 
Ellen  Vaughn  did  with  that  money,  and  be  governed  in  her 
conduct  toward  her  entirely  by  that.  Tying  on  a  little  straw 
bonnet,  enveloping  her  figure  in  a  sombre  shawl,  and  drawing 
a  green  veil  over  her  face,  she  passed  hurriedly  through  the 
nail  and  followed  the  seamstress  over  the  pavement.  Ellen 
had  disappeared ;  but  Rosa  knew  the  first  corner,  and  she 
almost  ran  until  she  obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  rusty  black 
bonnet  and  faded  dress.  Ellen  Vaughn  had  entirely  lost  her 
usual  free  step  and  air ;  there  was  a  stoop  in  her  figure,  and 
a  crouching,  hesitating  manner  of  moving,  which  showed  the 
crime  had  written  itself  on  her  conscience,  and  was  heaping 


220  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

up  the  infamy  within,  which  men  might  soon  pour  upon  her 
head.  She  crept  along  stealthily,  close  by  the  railing,  and 
Kosa  could  see,  from  the  little  distance  she  kept,  the  hand 
clutching  the  dress  as  it  had  done  at  first ;  and  she  could  see, 
too,  that  it  trembled  but  little  less  than  it  had  done  in  the 
house.  At  another  time,  Rosa  Warner  would  not  have  ven 
tured  on  those  dark,  filthy  back  streets  alone,  but  now,  she 
did  not  once  think  of  the  strangeness  of  her  situation,  or  the 
danger  of  being  unable  to  find  her  way  back  again.  The 
twilight  was  deepening,  but  she  kept  her  eye  on  the  moving 
figure  before  her,  and  her  thoughts  could  not  be  on  herself. 
At  length  the  seamstress  reached  a  large  old  wooden  building, 
in  a  ruinous  condition,  the  crazy  shutters  mostly  hanging  by 
one  hinge,  the  windows  stuffed  with  mouldy  clothes,  the  clap 
boards  loose  upon  the  wall,  and  the  whole  structure  settling 
to  one  side,  and  seeming  as  though  a  puff  of  wind  might 
level  it.  As  the  girl  set  her  foot  upon  the  broken  stairs,  a 
boy,  some  dozen  years  of  age,  glided  from  beneath  them,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  whispering1,  "  Wait  a  minute 
Nelly  !  —  Hush  !  don't  speak  loud — they  will  hear  us." 

"  Who?"  inquired  the  girl,  casting  a  glance  of  horror  over 
her  shoulder,  as  though  capable  of  but  a  single  thought. 

"  Mother  and  the  children.  Come  this  way,  Nelly ;  I  must 
tell  you.  I  hav'n't  earned  a  penny  to-day — not  a  single  one. 
Nobody  would  trust  a  bundle  with  such  a  looking  boy  as  I ; 
and  nobody  had  a  valise  to  carry,  or  a  horse  to  hold — nobody, 
because  we  were  starving,  Nelly." 

"John!" 

"  It  may  be  that  this  is  murmuring — sinful  murmuring,  as 
mother  would  say,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  The  little  girls  have 
been  crying  with  hunger  for  the  last  hour,  and  mother  is  worse, 
ten  times  worse — she  will  die,  Nelly,  and  all  for  the  want  of 
a  little  money  to  pay  a  doctor.  Oh  !  what  will  become  of  us  ? " 

"I  —  I — have  got  "  Ellen  Vaughn  began;  but  the 

words  seemed  to  choke  her,  and  she  remained  silent. 

"  But  I  hav'n't  told  you  all,  Nelly;  mother  has  said  strange 
things  to-day  ;  she  has  not  been  in  her  right  mind,  and  when 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  221 

I  was  gone,  she  frightened  the  little  girls  so  that  they  left  her 
alone." 

Poor  Ellen  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  upward ;  but, 
immediately,  an  expression  of  mingled  fear  and  shame  passed 
over  her  countenance,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
spread  palms,  saying,  in  a  low,  hoarse  whisper,  "  We  must  do 
something  for  her,  John." 

"  We  can't — we  cannot!  Oh,  Nelly!  that  money  should 
buy  health,  and  life  !  How  can  it  be  right  ?" 

"  We  will  have  a  doctor  for  mother." 

"  No  !  we  can't !  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  I  have 
been  everywhere  —  everywhere  that  I  could  find  a  'Dr.'  on 
the  sign-plate,  and  Nelly,  not  one  of  them  will  come — not 
one  of  them  will  stir  from  his  door  to  save  our  mother's  life." 

"  They  must,  for  —  for  —  I  —  have  —  got  —  "  Ellen 
gasped  for  breath,  and  again  stopped ;  while  the  brother,  too 
much  engaged  with  his  own  tale  to  heed  her  broken  words, 
proceeded  —  "After  that,  I  went  into  a  store  —  there  was  a 
dollar  —  a  large  silver  dollar,  lying  upon  the  counter,  right  in 
my  way,  and  nobody  saw  me — " 

"  John  ! "  shrieked  the  poor  girl,  staggering  heavily  against 
the  wall. 

"No!  no!  Nelly  —  I  didn't  take  it!  There  were  bad 
thoughts  came  into  my  mind;  but  I  remembered  you  and 
mother  —  I  knew  that  mother  would  rather  die  than  be  saved 
so;  and  I  knew  that  you,  Nelly,  would  never  use  such 
money ;  and  I  could  not  tell  you  a  lie.  No !  no !  I  did  n't 
take  the  money;  but  I  don't  think  any  better  thought  than 
that  kept  me  from  it.  I  am  sure  I  should  have  done  it,  only 
I  knew  it  would  break  your  heart." 

A  loud,  convulsive  sob  burst  from  the  bosom  of  the  poor 
girl,  and  her  frame  shook  violently. 

"  Don't  mind  it  now,  Nelly,  don't !  The  doctors  made  me 
mad,  or  I  should  never  have  felt  so.  But  you  need  n't  be 
afraid  I  shall  be  tempted  again — oh  no  !  not  even  for  the  sake 
of  mother  and  the  little  girls." 

Oh !  how  willingly  would  Ellen  Vaughn  have  made  her 
19* 


222  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

mother's  shroud  with  her  own  hands,  and  lain  down  to  die 
with  those  she  loved,  so  that  it  could  have  been  done  in  honor 
and  innocence.  There  is  no  misery  like  that  which  eats  into 
the  still  lingering  traces  of  God's  image,  and  degrades  us  be 
fore  ourselves. 

"  Don't  cry,  Nelly  !  don't !  exclaimed  the  boy,  putting  his 
arms  about  her  neck,  soothingly.  "  I  shall  have  better  luck 
to-morrow,  I  dare  say  ;  and  all  will  come  out  right  in  the  end. 
Mother  said  last  night  that  it  is  all  for  our  good  —  God  is  try 
ing  us  to  make  us  better ;  and,  though  I  don't  think  so  much 
about  such  things  as  I  ought,  I  always  feel  as  though  nothing 
very  bad  could  happen  to  us,  when  she  lays  her  hand  on  my 
head — just  as  she  used  to  on  the  ocean,  Nelly  —  and  talks 
of  our  Heavenly  Father's  knowing  all  about  us,  and  taking 
care  of  us.  Don't  cry,  Nelly,  I  shall  be  a  man  in  a  few  years 
and  then  I  can  support  us  all.  You  shall  not  live  in  a  garret 
then,  Nelly."  And  the  boy,  as  he  spoke,  straightened  his 
arm,  and  set  down  his  foot  firmly,  as  though  he  longed  for 
the  strong  frame  that  might  wrestle  with  his  wayward  destiny. 

One  shiver  passed  over  the  sister,  and  made  her  teeth  chat 
ter  momentarily,  and  then  she  dropped  her  hands  from  her 
face,  and  turning  away  her  head,  she  drew  the  note  from  her 
bosom,  and  pushed  it  into  the  boy's  hand.  "  I  ought  not  to 
cry,  John,  for  I  have  that  which  we  most  need.  No  doctor 
will  refuse  you  now,  and  you  can  get  bread  for  the  children, 
too." 

"  Five  dollars,  Nelly ! "  and  the  boy's  face  brightened  up 
with  joy. 

"  Go  as  soon  as  you  can,  John !  the  children  are  crying 
with  hunger,  and  mother  worse  —  worse  !  God  will  forgive 
me,"  she  murmured. 

"  But,  Nelly,  Mrs.  Warner  has  not  given  you  all  this  for 
three  days'  work,  has  she  ?  " 

"  No  matter,  now  —  no  matter  —  don't  ask  me  anything 
about  it  —  I  might  tell  a  lie  ! " 

"  No,  no  !  but  you  don't  want  to  tell  the  truth.  I  see  how 
it  is  —  Mrs.  Warner  has  given  you  this  for  being  good  and 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  223 

faithful,  and  you  don't  love  to  boast  of  your  own  goodness  — 
just  like  you,  Nelly." 

"  Go  !  go ! "  gasped  the  poor  girl ;  and  as  the  brother 
sprang  from  her  side,  and  bounded  joyfully  along  the  pave 
ment,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  wept,  and  wrung 
her  hands  in  utter  abandonment.  Rosa  Warner  longed  to 
step  forward  and  comfort  her,  but  this  was  neither  the  time 
nor  place  ;  and  she  stood  back,  awe-stricken,  until  the  girl, 
brushing  away  her  tears,  and  trying  to  call  up  a  look  of  cheer 
fulness,  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  Then  the  child,  for  the 
first  time  reminded  of  her  own  situation,  drew  her  veil  more 
closely  about  her  face,  and,  without  giving  one  look  to  the 
gloomy  piles  around  her,  or  the  star-lighted  sky  above,  turned 
back  and  fled  like  a  frightened  fawn  homeward. 

Rosa  was  by  no  means  sure  of  her  way,  for  she  had  noted 
nothing  when  she  came  but  Ellen  Vaughn.  We  never  know 
our  own  resources  till  necessity  moulds  them  into  a  spade,  and 
puts  it  into  our  hands,  bidding  us  work.  Rosa  Warner,  the 
timid,  delicate,  thoughtless  child,  that  had  scarce  ever  been 
allowed  to  use  her  own  judgment,  even  in  the  selection  of  a 
riband  for  her  hair,  lost  in  the  dark  of  evening,  in  a  spot  given 
up  to  wretchedness,  if  not  to  vice  !  But  Rosa  was  scarce 
alarmed  :  her  mind  was  preoccupied.  Now  and  then  she 
paused  at  a  corner,  in  embarrassment ;  then  she  would  renew 
her  speed,  and  press  onward,  taking  care  to  observe  a  course 
which  she  knew  led  into  a  more  familiar  part  of  the  city.  By 
this  means,  she  avoided  losing  herself  among  obscure  turns 
and  windings,  and,  although  she  was  taking  a  long  way  home, 
she  was  soon  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  her  plan,  by  finding 
herself  on  well  known  ground.  As  soon  as  Rosa  Warner 
reached  home,  she  proceeded  to  the  parlor,  and  was  delighted 
to  find  her  father  alone. 

"  You  recollect  that  pink  barege,  papa  ?"  she  said,  crossing 
her  hands  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  I  have  cause ;  it  spoiled  my  daughter's  face  for  a 
whole  day." 

"  Because  I  had  se*:  my  heart  on  it,  and  was  so  disap* 


224  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

pointed.  But  no  matter  about  it,  now ;  I  want  to  ask  you 
something  else,  papa.  Would  you  give  me  the  money  that  it 
would  cost  —  would  you  give  me  five  dollars,  if  you  knew 
that  I  would  put  it  to  a  good  use  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  know,  my  daughter,  that  you  would  put  it  to 
a  good  use,  without  being  told  what  you  proposed  doing  with 
it.  Misses  with  short  frocks,"  he  added,  tapping  her  chin 
playfully,  "  are  no  good  judges  in  these  matters."  Tears 
came  into  the  little  girl's  eyes,  and  they  were  not  unobserved 
by  the  father.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to  his 
knee. 

"  How  now,  Rosa  ?  have  you  such  a  very  hard  father  that 
you  cannot  tell  him  your  little  secrets  ?  Now  I  have  so  much 
confidence  in  your  discretion,  that  I  promise  you  the  money 
beforehand,  and  you  must  have  enough  confidence  in  my 
desire  to  gratify  you,  to  tell  me  all  about  your  little  project  — 
it  is  a  nice  one,  I  dare  say." 

"  It  may  not  be,  papa  —  perhaps  it  is  wrong,  but — " 

"  Then  tell  me,  and  I  will  help  you  judge." 

Rosa  hesitated.  She  had  full  confidence  in  her  father's 
generosity  and  goodness  of  heart ;  but  then  she  knew  that  he 
was  strict  in  the  administration  of  justice,  and  there  was  a 
crime  in  the  way,  which  she  could  not  but  .look  upon  with 
abhorrence.  How  much  more  severely  then,  might  her 
father,  not  seeing  the  palliating  circumstances  as  she  could 
see  them,  judge  of  the  matter. 

"  Indeed,  papa,  there  is  something  that  I  do  not  feel  at  lib 
erty  to  tell  even  to  you  ;  if  it  concerned  myself  I  would  — 
you  know  I  aiways  have  done  so  ;,  but  this  — " 

"  I  am  sorry  people  should  burden  my  little  girl  with  their 
secrets." 

"  Nobody  has.  All  I  know  is  partly  by  accident,  partly 
my  own  —  fault.  But  papa,  allow  me  to  tell  you  a  little,  and 
do  not  ask  me  to  speak  plainer.  Five  dollars," — and  Rosa 
now  spoke  quick  and  fervidly,  while  her  eye  avoided  her 
father's,  her  cheek  flushed,  and  her  lip  quivered  —  "  five  dol 
lars  will  save  a  poor,  sick  family  from  misery,  from  disgrace. 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  225 

Perhaps  they  are  not  worthy  —  I  do  not  know  —  but  they 
need  it  —  they  are  suffering  —  will  you  give  it  to  me,  papa?" 

Closely  closed  the  arms  about  the  excited  daughter,  and  the 
father's  voice  was  not  quite  clear,  as  he  inquired,  "  why  not 
go  to  your  mother,  Eosa  ? " 

"  I  cannot  —  there  are  good  reasons  why  I  cannot.  May  I 
have  the  money,  papa  ? " 

"  These  secrets  are  bad  things,  my  dear,  but  —  I  will  trust 
you." 

"  No  !  do  not  trust  me  ! "  exclaimed  the  child,  vehemently. 
"  What  I  do  may  be  wrong  —  I  am  afraid  it  is.  Do  not  trust 
me  —  think  nothing  about  it  either  way — forget,  dear  papa, 
that  you  have  given  me  this  money." 

The  father  shook  his  head  doubtingly,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  drew  forth  the  note  and  put  it  into  her  hand. 

"  One  more  favor,  papa ;  may  this  be  a  secret  between  us 
two?" 

"  Eosa,  I  do  not  approve  of  these  secrets  —  honest  people 
never  have  them.  Your  mysteries  do  not  please  me  at  all ; 
and,  I  cannot  encourage  or  tolerate  them  —  they  begin  with 
this,  and  with  this  they  must  end." 

"  They  shall,  papa ;  but,  if  you  knew  all,  you  would  not 
blame  me,  at  least. '' 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,  my  dear ;  I  do  not  doubt  your 
motives ;  but  I  must  not  allow  you  to  contract  bad  habits. 
Manosuvring  to  do  good  is  manoeuvring  still ;  and,  where  so 
much  machinery  is  necessary,  the  end  seldom  justifies  the 
means.  It  takes  an  old  head  to  carry  a  secret,  a  very  old  one 
—  mine  is  less  black  than  it  was  once  ;  but  it  is  not  old  enough 
10  be  so  burdened  yet.  And  yours  —  why  these  pretty  ring 
lets  are  a  strange  wig  for  one  knowing  in  the  ways  of  the 
world,  —  they  should  not  cover  a  brain  given  to  plotting  and 
conjuring." 

"  Papa,  you  mistake  me,  altogether ;  I  have  not  looked  for 
a  secret,  but  it  came  to  me ;  and  now  I  do  what  seems  to  me 
best.  I  shall  never  be  deceitful,  I  know  I  never  shall.  If 


226  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

every  mystery  vexes  me  like  this,  I  am  sure  I  shall  a\  oid 
another." 

"  So  be  it,  my  child." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  papa,"  and  leaving-  a  kiss  on  both 
cheeks,  Rosa  slid  from  her  father's  knee,  and  left  the  apart 
ment.  Gaining  the  hall,  she  paused  a  moment,  for  there 
were  voices  in  the  back  sitting-room,  and  she  caught  a  word 
or  two  that  told  her  the  note  had  been  missed. 

What  was  to  be  done  now  ?  The  last  moment  spent  with 
her  father  had  ruined  her  plan  ;  and  now  that  the  discovery 
had  been  made,  of  what  use  was  the  note  she  had  obtained 
to  replace  the  lost  one  ?  The  frank  acknowledgment  of  the 
existence  of  a  secret,  that  had  succeeded  so  well  with  her 
father,  would  be  entirely  useless  here ;  for  Mrs.  Warner 
would  never  rest  until  the  whole  was  thoroughly  investigated. 
Rosa  was  about  giving  up  all,  and  going  back  to  the  parlor, 
when  the  thought  of  poor  Ellen  Vaughn,  the  confiding  brother, 
the  sick  mother,  and  the  hungry  little  girls,  came  freshly  into 
her  mind,  and  she  resolved  to  make  one  more  effort.  Reach 
ing  the  door,  she  again  paused  ;  for  she  felt  her  limbs  shake, 
and  knew  by  the  chill  which  passed  over  her  frame,  that  she 
must  be  very  pale.  She  stood  for  a  moment  striving  for 
composure,  and  then  pushed  open  the  door.  The  moment 
she  entered,  one  of  her  cousins  glided  up  to  her,  and,  with 
consternation  depicted  on  her  face,  whispered,  "  What  think 
you,  Rosa,  aunt  has  lost  a  five  dollar  note." 

"  She  left  it  in  an  unsafe  place,"  observed  Miss  Rosa,  with 
well-feigned  carelessness,  and  elevating  the  note  above  her 
head. 

"  Rosa  Warner  ! "  exclaimed  ihe  lady,  sternly,  and  with  one 
of  her  withering  glances,  "  where  learned  you  to  practise 
tricks  on  your  mother  ?  Go  to  your  room  ! " 

Rosa  turned  without  a  word,  and  bursting  into  tears  before 
she  reached  the  hall,  hurried  up  the  stairs  and  threw  herself, 
sobbing,  on  her  own  bed.  Her  ruse  had  succeeded  well,  but 
she  had  incurred  the  anger  of  her  mother,  and  her  conscience 
old  her  that  she  deserved  it  all,  and  more.  "  I  am  deceit- 


THE    BANK.   IMOTE.  227 

ful ! "  she  repeated  to  herself  more  than  a  dozen  times  that 
night,  and  over  and  over  she  resolved  to  confess  the  whole 
the  very  next  morning.  But  when  morning  really  came,  it 
brought  quite  a  different  state  of  feeling.  Mrs.  Warner 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  affair  of  the  last  evening ;  and 
Rosa,  persuaded  that  she  had  saved  the  poor  girl  from  ruin, 
did  not  regret  the  means  she  had  taken  to  accomplish  it. 
She  felt  some  flutterings  of  heart  when  eight  o'clock  drew 
near;  and  started  every  time  the  door-bell  rang,  glancing 
from  the  window  to  see  if  she  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
black  bonnet ;  but  eight  passed,  and  nine  came  and  passed, 
and  no  seamstress  appeared.  Mrs.  Warner  grew  impatient ; 
for  though  not  pleased  with  Ellen  Vaughn's  face,  she  was 
obliged  to  own  that  in  the  use  of  the  needle  she  combined 
celerity  and  skill.  Ten  came  round,  and  still  no  Ellen 
Vaughn. 

"She  must  be  ill,"  suggested  Rosa;  "may  I  go  and  see, 
mamma  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  know  where  to  find  her." 

Rosa  blushed;  here  was  another  concealment.  "Robert 
might  go  with  me ;  you  sent  him  home  with  Miss  Vaughn 
once." 

"  True,  Robert  can  go,  and  then  there  will  be  no  need  of 
your  going." 

"  But  if  they  should  need  assistance,  mamma,  it  seems  so 
much  kinder  for  one  of  the  family " 

"You  have  taken  a  strange  fancy  to  that  girl,"  observed 
Mrs.  Warner. 

"She  seems  so  unhappy  ! "  murmured  the  child  :  but  it  was 
the  starting  tear,  not  the  words,  that  pleaded  her  cause  with 
her  mother. 

"  You  have  yet  a  great  deal  to  learn,  my  dear,"  said  the 
proud  woman,  tenderly ;  "  but  still  this  girl  may  be  in  want ; 
her  mother  may  be  worse,  and  I  have  no  objection  to  your 
going  to  see.  Get  your  bonnet,  and  in  the  mean  time  I  will 
fill  a  basket  for  Robert  to  carry.  We  should  never  visit  the 
poor  without  taking  some  comforts  with  us." 


228  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

Mrs.  Warner  did  not  always  think  that  comforts  comprised 
only  the  things  that  could  be  stowed  away  in  a  basket ;  but 
for  her  prejudices,  she  would  have  gone  herself  to  look  after 
Ellen  Vaughn ;  and  when  her  heart  was  enlisted,  no  human 
being  was  ever  more  completely  mistress  of  the  whole  vocab 
ulary  of  consolation  than  she. 

Strange  emotions  were  swelling  in  the  heart  of  pretty  Rosa 
Warner  as  she  tripped  along  beside  the  good-natured  serving- 
man,  for  she  thought  of  the  evening  previous,  when  Ellen 
Vaughn  reeled  over  the  pavement  before  her ;  and  she  won 
dered  what  good  people  —  what  her  father  and  mother  would 
think  of  her,  if  they  knew  she  had  been  accessary  to  a  theft. 
It  made  her  shudder,  and  she  resolved  not  to  think  of  it. 
Then  the  conversation  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  came  back  to 
her,  word  by  word ;  and  she  wished  that  her  mother  could 
have  heard  it,  believing  that  if  she  could,  she  would  forgive 
and  pity  poor  Ellen  Vaughn.  The  clapboards  rattling  at 
each  puff  of  air,  the  useless  shutters,  and  the  broken  stairs, 
were  not  new  to  Rosa ;  and  when  Robert  turned  and  asked 
her,  "  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it,  miss  ? "  she  only 
answered  with  a  shudder. 

Robert  inquired  of  a  poor  woman,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
for  Mrs.  Vaughn's  room,  and  was  shown  up  a  rickety  back- 
staircase,  the  old  crone  muttering  as  she  hobbled  on  before 
them, — 

"  It 's  but  a  narry  room  the  puir  crathur  '11  be  afther  havin' 
whin  the  sun  is  doon,  an'  a  deal  nigher  God's  airth  than  this 
ould  garret,  I  'm  a  thinkin' ! " 

Rosa,  though  startled,  had  no  time  to  ask  an  explanation, 
lor  the  old  woman  stopped,  and  pointing  with  her  staff  towards 
a  half-opened  door,  hobbled  back  the  way  she  came. 

"  Hush,  Robert ! "  whispered  the  child,  putting  her  finger 
to  her  lip  ;  and  stepping  lightly  forward,  she  stood  unobserved 
in  the  opening.  Unobserved — for  who  was  there  to  observe 
her  ?  On  a  miserable  couch,  spread  of  straw  and  rags  upon 
the  bare  floor,  lay  the  figure  of  a  woman.  The  cheeks  were 
sunken  and  the  muscles  rigid ;  weights  were  laid  upon  the 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  229 

closed  eyes  to  keep  down  the  lids ;  the  chin  was  bound  up  by 
a  folded  kerchief;  and  the  white,  bony  hands  lay  as  they  had 
been  placed,  their  livid  tips  crossing  each  other  on  her  still 
bosom.  The  mother  of  poor  Ellen  Vaughn  was  dead.  Rosa 
saw  it  at  a  glance ;  and  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  streamed 
down  over  her  face,  as  she  noted  a  touching  exhibition  of 
simple-hearted  affection.  A  pale,  meagre-looking  child  was 
kneeling  by  the  bedside,  trying  with  her  trembling  little  hand 
to  place  in  the  bosom  of  the  dead  a  single  rose  which  she  had 
just  broken  from  a  scraggy,  sickly  bush  beside  her.  The 
mother  had  probably  loved  that  rose-tree,  and  smiled  on  the 
little  bud  that  came  Kke  a  sweet  messenger  to  cheer  her,  and 
watched  its  opening  from  day  to  day  with  an  interest  incon 
ceivable  to  those  who  have  never  been  walled  up  in  the  prison 
of  a  noisome,  filthy  street,  in  the  darkest  quarter  of  a  large 
city.  The  child,  too,  had  loved  it ;  and  she  gave  all  she  had 
to  give,  when  she  broke  that  cherished  stem.  A  little  one, 
still  younger,  sat  on  the  knee  of  Ellen  Vaughn,  playing  with 
her  fast  falling  tears,  and  looking  into  her  face  with  curious 
interest. 

"  Be  's  she  don  to  Dod,  sissy  ?"  inquired  the  little  prattler; 
"  when  will  she  turn  back  agin  ?  " 

Poor  Ellen  could  not  answer ;  and  the  unconscious  baby- 
orphan,  putting  her  thin,  blue  arms  about  her  neck,  said, 
softly,  "  Don't  ki,  sissy,  don't  ki,  an'  I  will  tiss  'ou." 

The  boy,  with  quivering  chin  and  swollen  eyes,  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  watching  his  sister's  fond  movements 
about  the  dead ;  and  when  she  had  finished,  and  left  a  kiss 
on  the  icy  fingers  and  the  sunken  cheek,  he  pressed  both 
hands  upon  the  aching  forehead,  and  with  a  loud,  sob-like 
burst  of  agony,  turned  away,  and  coiled  himself  up  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room. 

"  We  are  too  late,  Robert,"  whispered  Rosa  Warner,  "  go 
and  tell  mother." 

Robert  drew  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  hastily  across  his  eyes, 
and  hurried  down  the  stairs ;  while  Rosa  twined  her  arms 
tvith  those  of  the  little  one  on  Ellen  Vaughn's  knee,  and 
20 


230  THE    BANK   NOTE. 

whispered  such  words  as  were  the  first  to  find  their  way  up 
from  her  swelling  heart. 

When  Mrs.  Warner  reached  the  house  of  death,  she  found 
the  seamstress  fast  asleep,  with  her  head  resting  on  her 
daughter's  lap,  and  the  three  children  gathered  around  Rosa's 
feet,  listening  to  her  words  of  soothing  and  encouragement. 
How  changed  did  Rosa  Warner  seem  within  the  last  three 
days  !  How  exquisitely  had  the  pencil  of  sorrow  shaded  and 
mellowed  down  her  beauty  !  So  thought  the  mother,  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  little  ministering  angel ;  and  then  a  severe 
pang  of  remorse  shot  to  her  heart  as  her  eye  fell  upon  the 
hollow,  death-like  face  between  her  child's  soothing  hands. 

"  Poor  Ellen  is  asleep,  mamma,"  whispered  Rosa ;  "  she 
has  not  closed  her  eyes  for  two  whole  nights,  and  she  is 
almost  worn  out  with  fatigue." 

John  hastened  to  bring  the  only  stool  the  garret  could 
boast ;  his  younger  sister,  a  glow  of  gratitude  lighting  up  her 
sad  face,  exclaimed,  "  You  are  so  good  ! "  and  the  little  one, 
nestling  both  of  her  puny  hands  in  the  lady's,  looked  up  into 
her  face,  and  began  telling  her  that  "  mammy  had  don  to 
Dod,"  never  to  "turn  back  agin,"  but  that  she  would  send  for 
all  of  them  one  of  these  days,  and  then  they  "  should  n't  be 
hundry  any  more  —  never — never — "  so  "sissy"  said. 

Hungry,  poor  lisper  !  That  the  grave  should  be  an  infant's 
hope  !  Mrs.  Warner  promised  her  own  heart  that  their  last 
hour  of  suffering  from  hunger  had  passed  ;  then,  taking  the 
prattler  in  her  arms,  she  called  the  boy  to  her  side  ;  and,  with 
the  most  sympathetic  delicacy,  drew  from  him  revealings  that 
made  her  heart  ache.  He  told  her  how  they  had  been  happy 
beyond  the  sea ;  how,  in  an  evil  hour,  his  father  had  sold  his 
little  patrimony,  and  embarked  for  an  unknown  land ;  of  a 
death  and  burial  at  sea,  that  left  the  little  family  without  a 
head,  desolate,  indeed ;  of  a  poor  woman  seeking  a  home  in 
a  strange  land,  followed  by  her  dependent  children ;  of  the 
daily  diminishing  of  their  slender  funds  ;  of  wakeful  eyes 
and  anxious  bosoms  ;  of  the  gradual  sinking  away  of  one  of 
their  number,  and  the  grave  opened  for  her  in  the  village 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  231 

church-yard ;  of  toil  and  sickness,  sickness,  toil,  and  tears , 
then  want  of  work,  followed  by  want  of  bread ;  the  bitter 
mockery  that  men  palm  off  for  sympathy ;  hours  minuted  by 
woe ;  the  almost  hopeless  clinging  to  hope ;  of  vain,  impotent 
struggles  ;  and  finally,  the  ill-judged  removal  to  the  city. 
The  boy  stopped  there ;  and  Mrs.  Warner,  glancing  around 
the  miserable  garret,  read  all  the  rest  but  too  plainly.  Oh  ! 
what  sacrifice  would  not  the  proud  lady  have  made  to  be  able 
to  live  over  again  the  three  days  since  she  had  first  seen  Ellen 
Vaughn  !  The  boy  had  told  her  of  a  previous  bereavement, 
and  she  now  inquired  where  they  had  buried  his  sister.  He 
told  her  of  a  pleasant  grave-yard  on  the  shore  of  New  Jersey, 
and  of  a  rose-bush  that  he  had  planted,  and  his  mother  and 
Nelly  watered  and  trimmed ;  "  but,"  exclaimed  the  boy  with  a 
passionate  sob,  "  she  cannot  lie  there !  They  will  put  my 
mother  in  the  Potter's-field — they  will  not  leave  us  even  her 
grave !  Oh !  that  is  worst  of  all ! " 

Mrs.  Warner  assured  him  that  his  mother  should  be  buried 
in  the  spot  which  he  and  Ellen  should  choose ;  and  when 
Rosa  saw  the  boy's  mournful  delight,  she  could  scarce  forbear 
waking  the  sleeper,  to  whisper  the  same  consolation  in  her 
ear.  But  when  Ellen  at  last  did  awake,  it  was  not  to  be  con 
soled.  At  sight  of  Mrs.  Warner  she  was  at  first  surprised  ; 
then,  overcome  by  shame  and  remorse,  she  buried  her  face  in 
her  crossed  arms ;  and  finally,  springing  to  her  feet  impetu 
ously,  she  would  have  revealed  the  whole,  but  for  a  whisper 
from  Rosa.  "  Do  not  say  it  before  your  brother,  Ellen." 

The  girl  recoiled ;  and  her  limbs  gradually  failing  beneath 
her,  she  sank  slowly  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  murmuring, 
"  Then  you  know  it  all,  and  the  children  will  know  it  and 
despise  me.  Thank  God  !  my  mother  is  spared  this  !  But 
who  will  care  for  the  children  ? " 

"  Nobody  knows  it,"  whispered  Rosa  feelingly,  "  nobody 
but  me ;  and  you  must  not  tell — now,  at  least." 

Mrs.  Warner  did  not  wonder  that  sight  of  her  should  so 
affect  the  poor  seamstress ;  and  she  now  came  forward  and 
spoke  kind,  pitying  words,  in  those  tones  which  steal  so 
soothingly  over  the  aching  heart,  and  lull  the  perturbed  spirit. 


THE    BANK   NOTE. 

In  less  than  a  week,  a  pleasant  room  was  opened  a  few 
doors  from  Mrs.  Warner's,  and  filled  with  flowers  and  choice 
books,  and  everything  agreeable  to  a  cultivated,  simple  taste ; 
and  this  was  the  home  of  the  orphans.  Not  that  they  were 
paupers,  for  their  busy  hands  returned  an  equivalent  for  all 
the  good  they  received.  The  power  to  use  their  hands  was 
all  that  had  been  given  them.  John  was  sent  to  school  four 
hours  in  the  day,  and  employed  by  Mr.  Warner  the  remain 
der  of  the  time,  learning  constantly  lessons  of  industry  and 
independence.  The  sister,  who  had  cherished  the  rose  so 
fondly,  and  bestowed  it  so  touchingly,  had  plenty  of  roses 
now ;  and  when  not  engaged  in  school,  she  glided  around 
among  the  flowers  like  one  of  their  own  sweet  selves.  The 
little  one  talked  no  more  of  going  to  heaven  to  avoid  being 
"  hungry,"  but  still  she  lisped  her  broken  prayers,  kneeling 
in  her  sister's  lap,  and  still  she  prattled  to  Mrs.  Warner  of 
things  "  sissy"  told  her,  sometimes  perverting  their  meaning 
ludicrously,  and  always  appearing  most  enchantingly  simple. 
As  for  Ellen,  she  habitually  wore  a  look  of  sad  seriousness 
far  beyond  her  years ;  but  every  day  it  became  more  and 
more  mellowed  and  sweetened,  till  one  could  scarce  wish  it 
away.  It  required  but  few  words  from  Mrs.  Warner,  to  inter 
est  several  ladies  in  the  young  girl's  behalf;  and  from  that 
time  she  never  lacked  employment,  and  consequently  never 
lacked  either  the  necessaries,  or  a  moderate  share  of  the  lux 
uries,  of  life. 

And  did  Ellen  Vaughn  ever  acknowledge  how  much  more 
miserable  she  had  made  herself,  than  all  the  troubles,  and 
sorrows,  and  privations  that  had  been  heaped  without  meas 
ure  upon  the  heads  of  those  she  loved,  could  have  made  her? 
and  was  Miss  Rosa  Warner's  little  chain  of  deceptions  ever 
brought  to  light?  Ay,  it  could  not  be  otherwise;  for  the 
seamstress  would  not  leave  her  miserable  garret  until  the 
darkest  corner  of  her  heart,  the  darkest  leaf  of  her  life,  was 
unfolded  to  her  benefactress.  And  Mrs.  Warner,  proud 
woman  as  she  was,  wept,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke  of  her 
self,  declaring  that  she  had  been  guilty  of  a  double  crime  — 


THE    BANK   NOTE.  233 

the  fault  was  entirely  hers.  And  Rosa !  Oh !  the  pink 
barege  was  only  a  tithe  of  her  rewards,  though  no  one  called 
the  gifts  heaped  upon  her  by  such  a  name.  And  how  much 
more  attention  Mrs.  Warner  bestowed  upon  her  now !  how 
much  she  watched  every  movement,  and  strove  to  read  every 
glance !  and  how  she  wondered  that  she  had  ever  considered 
the  little  lady  so  utterly  thoughtless  !  But  Rosa  Warner  was 
thoughtless,  even  as  the  morning  bird  that 

"  Pours  its  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." 

That  is,  she  was  thoughtless  as  far  as  the  head  was  con 
cerned  ;  but  her  little  heart  was  brimming  over  with  heavenly 
wisdom — a  wisdom  made  up  of  love  and  joy. 
20* 


234 


TO    MY    SISTER    IN    HEAVEN 

MY  sister,  when  the  evening  wanes, 
And  midnight  hours  creep  on ; 

When  hushed  is  every  earthly  sound, 
And  all  my  cares  are  gone ; 

'T  is  then,  into  my  quiet  room 

Thou  comest  as  of  yore  ; 
And  close  I  seat  me  at  thy  side, 

Where  oft  I  've  sat  before. 

Then  I  am  not  as  in  the  day, 

But  grow  again  a  child, 
Simple  and  loving,  as  when  first 

Thy  lips  upon  me  smiled. 

There,  with  thine  arm  about  my  waist, 

Thy  fingers  on  my  brow — 
Those  long,  thin  fingers,  parting  back 

The  clustering  hair — and  thou 

Pale  as  the  unsunned  violet, 

Which  opens  by  the  rill ; 
I  sit  and  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 

Deep,  dark,  and  loving,  still. 

And  then  I  hear  thy  soft  low  voice, 
Which  always  touched  my  heart ; 

And  weep  because  thou  tellest  me 
How  near  to  heaven  thou  art. 

And  still  thou  speak'st  of  angel  ones, 
That  bow  before  the  throne  ; 

And  say'st  the  little  one  thou  'st  loved 
Shall  ne'er  be  left  alone 


TO    MY    SISTER    IN    HEAVEN.  235 

But  when,  an  angel  too,  thou  hast 

Thy  robes  of  glory  on, 
Thou  'It  hover  round  her  pillowed  rest, 

Till  morning  light  shall  dawn ; 

And  ever,  through  life's  mazy  way, 

Thou  'It  guide  her  wayward  feet ; 
And  be  the  first  her  spirit  freed 

In  yonder  home  to  greet. 

And,  sister  mine,  I  've  felt  thy  care 

In  danger  o'er  me  thrown  ; 
And  when  cold  hearts  were  gathering  near, 

I  have  not  been  alone. 

Long  years  have  wheeled  their  weary  round, 

Since  dark  and  deep  they  laid 
Thy  coffined  form,  and  heaped  the  earth. 

And  bowed  their  heads  and  prayed ; 

Then  turned  away  and  talked  of  spring 

And  of  the  sunny  day ; 
As  though  the  earth  could  smile  again, 

When  thou  hadst  passed  away  ! 

And  since,  I  've  trod  a  thorny  path, 

Of  loneliness  and  pain ; 
Of  clouded  skies,  and  blighted  flowers 

And  coldness,  and  disdain. 

I  've  drunk  from  out  a  bitter  cup ; 

With  care  and  grief  have  striven ; 
But  then,  the  rustle  of  thy  wing 

Has  brought  me  near  to  heaven. 

Then  come,  my  angel-one,  to-night ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  gloom  ; 
Come  with  thy  quiet  step  and  smile, 

And  seat  thee  in  my  room. 


236  TO    MY    SISTER    IN    HEAVEN. 

And  clasp,  me,  sister,  in  thine  arms, 
And  hold  me  to  thy  hreast ; 

For  by  the  thronging  cares  of  earth 
I  'm  wearied  and  oppressed. 

And  let  me  close  my  aching  lids, 
And  sleep  upon  that  arm, 

Which  used  to  seem  enough  to  me 
To  shelter  from  all  harm. 

I  'm  weary  now,  I  'm  weary  now ! 

I  fain  would  be  at  rest ! 
Yet  closer  twine  thine  angel  arms, 

And  fold  me  to  thy  breast. 


237 


ALLY    FISHEK. 

STUDY,  study,  study ! 

Trudge,  trudge,  trudge  ! 

Sew,  sew,  sew  ! 

Oh,  what  a  humdrum  life  was  that  of  little  Ally  Fisher ! 
Day  in,  day  out,  late  and  early,  from  week's  end  to  week's 
end,  it  was  all  the  same.  Oh,  how  Ally's  feet  and  head  and 
hands  ached!  and  sometimes  her  heart  ached,  too  —  poor 
child ! 

Ally  was  not  an  interesting  little  girl ;  she  had  no  time  to 
be  interesting.  Her  voice,  true,  was  very  sweet,  but  so  plain 
tive  !  Beside,  you  seldom  heard  it ;  for  little  Ally  Fisher's 
thoughts  were  so  constantly  occupied,  that  it  was  seldom  they 
found  time  to  come  up  to  her  lips.  No,  Ally  was  not  inter 
esting.  She  had  never  given  out  the  silvery,  care-free,  heart- 
laugh  which  we  love  so  to  hear  from  children  :  she  could  not 
laugh ;  for,  though  sent  to  earth,  a  disguised  ministering  an 
gel,  vice  had  arisen  between  her  and  all  life's  brightness,  and 
clouded  in  her  sun.  And  how  can  anything  be  interesting 
on  which  the  shadow  of  vice  rests  ?  Instead  of  mirth,  Ally 
had  given  her  young  spirit  to  sorrow ;  instead  of  the  bright 
flowers  springing  up  in  the  pathway  of  blissful  childhood,  the 
swelling,  bursting  buds  of  Hope  that  make  our  spring  days 
so  gay,  Ally  looked  out  upon  a  desert  with  but  one  oasis. 
Oh,  how  dear  was  that  bright  spot,  with  its  flowers  all  fade 
less,  its  waters  sparkling,  never-failing,  living,  its  harps,  its 
crowns,  its  sainted  ones,  its  white-winged  throng,  its  King' 
The  King  of  Heaven!  —  that  kind  Saviour  who  loved  her, 
who  watched  over  her  in  her  helplessness,  who  counted  all 
her  tears,  lightened  all  her  burdens,  and  was  waiting  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  shelter  her  forever  in  his  bosom.  Little 
Ally  Fisher  had  indeed  one  pure,  precious  source  of  happi- 


23S  ALLY    FISHER. 

ness ;  and  that  was  why  the  grave  did  not  open  beneath  her 
childish  feet,  and  she  go  down  into  it  for  rest,  worn  out  by 
her  burden  of  sorrow,  want  and  misery.  Yet  Ally  was  not 
interesting.  When  other  children  were  out  playing  among 
the  quivering,  joyful  summer  shadows,  she  sat  away  behind 
her  desk  in  the  school-room,  sew,  sew,  sewing,  till  her  eyes 
ached  away  back  into  her  head,  and  her  little  arm  felt  as 
though  it  must  drop  from  the  thin  shoulder.  "  Odd  ways 
these  for  a  child  !  How  disagreeably  mature !  It  is  a  very 
unpleasant  thing  to  see  children  make  old  women  of  them 
selves  ! "  Ah,  then,  woe  to  the  sin — -woe  to  the  sinner  who 
cheats  a  young  heart  of  its  spring ! 

Neither  was  Ally  beautiful; — her  face  was  so  thin  and 
want-pinched,  and  her  great  eyes  looked  so  wobegone ! 
How  could  Ally  be  beautiful,  with  such  a  load  of  care  upon 
her,  crushing  beneath  its  iron  weight  the  rich  jewels  which 
God  had  lavished  upon  her  spirit  ?  It  is  the  inner  beauty  that 
shines  upon  the  face,  —  and  all  the  flowers  of  her  young 
heart  had  been  blasted.  Her  curls  were  glossy  enough,  but 
you  could  not  help  believing,  when  you  looked  upon  them, 
that  misery  nestled  in  their  deep  shadows ;  her  eyes  were  of 
the  softest,  meekest  brown,  fringed  with  rich  sable,  but  so  full 
of  misery !  Her  complexion  was  transparently  fair,  with  a 
tinge  of  blue,  instead  of  the  warm,  generous  heart-tide  which 
oelongs  to  childhood  and  youth ;  all  her  features  were  pinched 
and  attenuated ;  her  hands  were  small,  and  thin,  and  blue ; 
and  her  little  figure,  in  its  scanty,  homely  clothing,  looked 
very  much  like  a  weed  which  has  stood  too  long  in  the 
autumn  time.  So  frail !  so  delicate  !  so  desolate  ! 

And  did  anybody  love  little  Ally  Fisher?  the  busy  bee  — 
the  hum-drum  worker — the  forlorn  child  who  was  neither 
mteresting  nor  beautiful  ?  Was  there  anybody  to  love  her  ? 
No  one  but  her  mother  —  a  poor,  sad  looking  woman,  who 
wore  a  faded  green  bonnet  and  a  patched  chintz  frock,  and 
never  stopped  to  smile  or  shake  hands  with  anybody,  when 
she  walked  out  of  the  village  church.  This  desolate,  sad- 
hearted  woman,  with  her  bony  figure  and  sharpened  face  — 


ALLY    FISHER.  239 

this  Dame  Fisher,  whom  the  boys  called  a  scare-crow,  and 
the  girls  used  to  imitate  in  tableaux  —  this  strange  woman, 
seeming  in  her  visible  wretchedness  scarce  to  belong  to  this 
bright,  beautiful  world,  bore  a  measureless,  exhaustless  foun 
tain  of  love  behind  the  faded  garments  and  the  ugly  person  ; 
and  she  lavished  all  its  holy  wealth  on  poor  little  Ally.  Ally 
had  a  father,  too ;  but  he  did  not  love  her.  He  loved  nothing 
but  the  vile  grog-shop  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  the 
brown  earthen  jug  which  he  yet  had  humanity  or  shame 
enough  to  hide  away  in  the  loft.  Ah,  now  you  see  why  Ally 
Fisher  was  unhappy !  Now  you  see  the  vice  in  whose 
shadow  the  stricken  child  matured  so  rapidly !  Now  you 
are  ready  to  exclaim  with  me,  "  Poor,  poor  Ally  Fisher  ! 
God  help  her ! " 

Ay,  God  help  her  ! 

Ally  tried  very  hard  to  help  herself ;  but  her  mother  was 
always  very  feeble,  and  there  were  several  little  ones  younger 
than  herself.  What  could  poor  Ally  do  ?  She  went  to 
school  —  that  she  would  do,  because  she  never  could  accom 
plish  anything  at  home  in  that  small,  crowded  room,  with  all 
those  thin-faced,  miserable  little  creatures  about  her;  but  she 
took  her  sewing  with  her,  and  every  moment  that  she  could 
steal  from  her  books  was  devoted  to  earning  bread. 

Dame  Fisher  had  looked  earnestly  forward  to  the  time 
when  Ally  would  be  old  enough  and  learned  enough  to  vary 
the  monotonous  character  of  her  employment,  and  preside  in 
the  capacity  of  teacher  over  the  little  school  just  over  the  hill. 
These  mothers  are  so  dotingly  hopeful !  How  could  she 
think  of  it,  and  Ally  the  child  of  a  drunkard  ?  To  be  sure, 
this  was  the  only  vice  of  which  Billy  Fisher  had  ever  been 
guilty.  He  had  never  defrauded  his  neighbor ;  he  had  never, 
in  better  days,  when  some  who  now  despised  him  were  in  his 
power,  been  oppressive  to  the  poor ;  he  had  harmed  no  one, 
nor  wished  harm  to  any ;  he  had  only  degraded  his  own 
nature  almost  to  a  bestial  level,  and  poured  out  a  vessel  of 
shame  upon  his  family.  Enough,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then  Ally 
she  had  always  been  a  gentle,  patient,  toiling,  faultless 


240  ALLY    FISHER. 

child,  and  why  must  she  suffer  for  her  father's  sin  ?  What ! 
the  daughter  of  the  drunken  vagabond,  Billy  Fisher,  a  teach 
er  for  their  children !  What  a  presuming  minx  she  must  be  ! 
The  idea  was  preposterous  !  She  must  find  other  means  of 
supplying  herself  with  the  finery  she  was  prinking  in  of  late  ; 
let  her  go  into  the  kitchen  where  she  belonged  !  Poor  Ally ! 
she  had  wrought  till  midnight  for  a  fortnight,  to  prepare  her 
self  for  presentation  to  these  same  fault-finders ;  and  if  she 
had  not,  they  would  have  called  her  ragamuffin.  Where 
shall  we  look  for  a  reasonable  man  ? 

Ally  was  not  much  distressed.  To  be  sure,  it  was  the 
breaking  up  of  a  long  cherished  dream,  and  the  severer  that 
this  had  been  the  only  dream  she  had  ever  dared  cherish  ; 
but  the  poor  girl  had  a  holy  resource,  and  she  did  not  repine. 
She  went  from  the  door  where  the  one  hope  of  her  life  had 
been  cruelly  crushed,  with  a  swelling  heart  and  faltering  step. 
Over  the  stile  across  the  way,  the  little  blue  eyes  of  the  spring- 
violets  were  looking  up  lovingly  from  beds  of  moss  ;  the  freed 
streams  were  dancing  gaily,  flashing  and  sparkling  in  the 
sunlight ;  and  on  a  brown  maple  bough,  where  leaf-buds  were 
swelling  ready  to  burst  with  life,  a  little  bird,  the  first  spring- 
bird,  carolled  as  blithely  as  though  it  might  thus  bring  Eden 
to  a  desolate,  disappointed,  sorrowing  heart.  Ally  Fisher 
heard  it,  and  the  tears  broke  over  their  fringed  boundaries 
and  fell  in  a  sparkling  shower  upon  her  boddice.  Then  she 
crossed  the  stile,  and  the  stream,  and  passed  the  trees,  till  she 
found  a  solitary  nook  away  in  the  heart  of  the  wood  ;  and 
there  she  knelt  and  prayed.  How  strong  was  Ally  Fisher 
when  she  left  her  retreat !  The  arm  of  Him  who  is  almighty 
was  about  her. 

Ally  Fisher  passed  with  quite  as  light  a  foot  as  usual  over 
the  dried  leaves  through  which  the  tender  spring-blades  were 
peeping,  and  beyond  the  border  of  the  wood,  till  she  came 
within  sight  of  one  of  our  beautiful  central  lakes  on  the  border 
of  which  the  young  green  was  striving  with  the  pallid  spoils 
of  last  year's  frost.  Ally  Fisher  was  not  very  observing  — 
she  was  too  thoughtful  to  be  observing ;  but  as  she  emerged 


ALLY    FISHER.  241 

from  the  wood  she  saw  a  person,  probably  a  nurse,  walking 
near  the  lake  with  a  little  girl,  who  danced,  and  prattled,  and 
clapped  her  tiny  hands,  now  bounding  from  the  path,  now 
half  hiding  her  little  head  in  the  woman's  dress,  and  then  run 
ning  forward  with  all  the  guileless  glee  of  a  bird  or  butterfly. 
Ally  looked  at  her,  and  felt  the  warm,  tears  creeping  to  her 
eyes.  Why  had  she  never  been  thus  happy  ?  And  why 
should  that  terrible  shadow  which  had  rested  on  her  cradle, 
darken  at  this  point,  so  full  of  strange,  wondrous  interest,  now 
when  she  was 

"  Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
"Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet. 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse." 

The  tears  crept  to  Ally's  eyes ;  but  they  had  no  time  to  fall. 
She  heard  a  shriek,  and  saw  the  woman  cowering  over  the 
verge  of  the  lake,  her  hands  clasped  as  though  in  an  ecstasy 
of  agonized  fear. 

"  The  child  !  "  thought  Ally,  as  she  sprang  forward,  new 
life  in  every  limb  and  lighting  up  her  eye.  She  was  right. 
The  little  one  was  just  rising  to  the  surface  after  her  first  ter 
rible  plunge  ;  Ally  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale,  agonized  face, 
then  a  fold  of  scarlet ;  and  then  all  disappeared  except  the 
successive  rings  formed  by  the  rippling  water.  "  It  is  not 
deep,  not  very  deep,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  half  to  the 
careless  nurse,  "  if  I  were  only  taller ! "  She  stepped  into 
the  water  carefully,  as  though  to  insure  in  the  outset  a  firm 
footing.  Another  step,  and  the  water  grew  deeper  —  another 
—  another  —  the  water  had  arisen  above  her  waist,  and  her 
slight  figure  seemed  swayed  by  its  undulations.  Dare  she 
go  farther  ?  Oh,  the  lake  was  so  still  —  only  a  ripple  on  its 
surface  ;  and  a  life  —  a  life  at  stake  !  Again  on,  one  more 
step  —  the  little  scarlet  dress  appeared  just  before  her.  But 
one  short  step  more! — she  falters,  reels% — ah,  she  grasps 
it!  —  now  Ally!  see,  she  pauses  deliberately  to  steady  her- 
21 


242  ALLY    FISHER. 

self!  Her  presence  of  mind,  even  in  the  moment  of  triumph, 
has  not  forsaken  her,  and  her  foot  is  still  firm.  She  returns 
slowly,  safely  to  the  shore ;  and  sinks,  with  her  recovered 
human  treasure  at  the  feet  of  the  terrified  nurse. 

Ally  Fisher  opened  her  large,  wondering  eyes  upon  a 
strange  scene.  Her  head  lay  upon  a  pillow  of  rich  purple 
velvet ;  and  she  turned  from  her  singular  couch  to  magnifi 
cent  folds  of  drapery ;  heavy  golden  cords  half  hidden  in  their 
soft  shadows  ;  rich,  massive  furniture,  the  use  of  which  she  did 
not  understand  —  all  the  wonders  of  this  magic  palace  —  quite 
unheeding  a  kind  face  which  bent  anxiously  over  her. 

"  Oh,  1  was  so  careless,  and  you  so  good ! "  was  the  first 
exclamation  she  heard  ;  and  then  from  a  sofa  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room  came  a  pale,  beautiful  lady  and  whispered,  "  Dear 
child  !  God  bless  her  ! "  in  low,  tremulous  tones,  as  though 
the  terror  had  not  yet  gone  from  her  heart. 

"  Does  she  recover  ?  "  inquired  another  voice.  It  was  that 
of  a  man ;  and,  though  strong,  there  was  now  a  subdued 
tremor  in  it,  which  gave  evidence  that  the  string  on  which  it 
vibrated  had  been  lately  jarred  by  fear  and  sorrow.  "  Does 
she  recover  ?  This  noble  deed  has  made  her  ours  as  Marcia 
is.  She  shall  never  go  back  to  that  poor  hovel  again." 

"  My  mother  ! "  was  Ally's  answering  exclamation.  "  Oh, 
she  will  be  so  frightened  !  I  must  go  to  my  mother  now."  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  lady  and  her  husband,  and  even  the 
attending  physician  insisted  on  her  remaining,  at  least  until 
she  was  quite  recovered  ;  and  offered  to  send  for  her  mother. 
Ally  arose  to  her  feet  and  smiled  her  usual  sad  smile. 

"  I  am  well,  quite  well.     It  did  n't  hurt  me  any ;  I  was 
only  frightened  because  I  thought  the  poor  little  girl  was 
dead.     To  be  sure,  I  should  n't  fear  the  dead,  but  when  I  had 
her  in  my  arms  —     Are  you  sure  she  will  get  well  ?  " 
I  "  She  will ;  and  it  was  you  who  saved  her  life." 
'  Ally  shuddered.     "  Uh  !    her  cheek  was  so  cold  !  just  like 
little  Willie's.     But  you  say  she  will  get  well,  and  I  am  very 
glad  ;  though  sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  a  pleasant  thing 


ALLY    FISHER.  243 

tqjlie  and  go  to  heaven  where  Jesus  Christ  is.  —  It  is  so  dreary 
here !"  she  acljed  in  a  pitiful  tone  and  half  musingly. 

Dame  Fisher  was  surprised  to  see  the  family  carriage  of 
the  Burnells  draw  up  at  her  humble  door,  and  more  still  sur 
prised  when  her  own  Ally,  all  in  strange  garb  "  a  world  too 
wide,"  sprang  from  it,  her  pale  face  really  brilliant  with  ex 
citement.  Ally's  large  eyes  were  larger  than  ever,  and  the 
heart's  light  was  centred  beneath  their  jetty  fringes ;  while 
her  mouth,  the  lips  no  longer  pale,  was  wreathed  with  unu 
sual  smiles. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  I  have  saved  a  life  !  Is  not  God  kind  to 
let  me  do  so  great  a  thing  ? " 

Strange  that  neither  Ally  nor  her  mother  thought  of  the 
lost  school  that  night,  heavy  as  the  disappointmen-t  was  ! 
Nay,  is  it  strange  ?  They  thought  of  it  in  the  morning, 
however,  and  then  dame  Fisher  was  much  sadder  than  Ally 
was. 

"  So  you  are  to  sew  your  life  away,"  she  said  despond- 
ingly ;  "  my  poor,  poor  Ally  !  " 

"  No,  mother ;  God  will  take  care  of  me." 

It  was  not  noon  when  the  family  carriage  of  the  Burnells 
again  appeared  at  the  door  of  Billy  Fisher's  miserable  cottage. 

"  Mrs.  Burnell.  It  may  be,  Ally,  she  will  get  you  the 
school  —  these  rich  people  have  so  much  influence." 

Mrs.  Burnell  came  to  offer  Ally,  as  her  husband  had  prom 
ised  in  his  first  lively  emotion  of  gratitude,  a  splendid  home. 

"  You  shall  share  with  little  Marcia  in  everything,"  she 
said.  "  You  shall  even  divide  our  love.  More,  you  are  older, 
and  you  shall  be  considered  in  everything  the  elder  daughter. 
Come  and  live  with  us,  dear ;  for  we  should  have  had  no 
child  but  for  you." 

Ally  looked  at  her  mother,  whose  thin  face  now  glowed 
with  gratified  ambition ;  glanced  at  the  broken  walls  of  the 
miserable  hovel  she  called  home  ;  turned  from  one  little  half- 
starved  figure  to  another ;  and  then,  approaching  the  lady,x 
said  in  a  low,  firm  tone,  "  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  will  pray 
God  to  bless  you  for  it ;  but  I  must  not  go  away  from  here  ! " 


244  ALLY   FISHER. 

"  Must  not ! " 

"  Must  not,  Ally ! "  exclaimed  the  surprised,  disappointed 
mother. 

Ally's  voice  became  choked.  "  This  is  a  very  poor  place 
—  I  never  knew  how  poor  until  I  went  into  some  of  the  grand 
house^  ;  but  I  have  always  lived  in  it,  and  — " 

"  But  the  sewing,  and  that  terrible  pain  in  your  side,  dear ! " 
interrupted  the  matron. 

"  It  will  be  better  soon,  I  think ;  and  may  be  I  shall  not 
have  to  sew  as  much  now  Mary  is  getting  bigger." 

"But,  Ally— " 

"  Mother,  don't  drive  me  away  from  home." 

"  We  will  give  you  a  home,"  pleaded  the  lady,  "  the  home 
you  saw  yesterday.  There  you  shall  have  everything  you 
can  wish ;  things  much  more  beautiful  than  you  have  ever 
seen  in  your  life  ;  and  little  Marcia,  whose  life  you  saved,  will 
love  you,  and  so  will  we  all." 

"  Then  who  will  love  my  poor,  poor  mother?"  And  Ally 
burst  into  tears. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  conference  a  head  had  been 
raised  from  a  pile  of  bed-covering  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
a  red,  bloated  face  looked  out  on  the  group  with  vague  won 
der.  Soon  an  expression  of  intelligence  began  to  lighten  up 
the  heavy  eyes,  and  now  and  then  a  trace  of  something  like 
emotion  appeared  upon  the  face.  At  Ally's  last  words  there 
was  for  a  moment  a  strange,  convulsive  working  of  the  fea 
tures,  and  the  head  fell  heavily  back  upon  the  pillow. 

It  was  in  vain  that  both  the  lady  and  dame  Fisher  pleaded. 
Ally's  firm,  modest  answer  was  ever  the  same.  "  Oh,  it  was 
nothing ;  I  could  n't  let  the  little  girl  drown,  when  it  was  so 
easy  to  go  into  the  water.  It  was  nothing ;  so  I  do  not  deserve 
that  beautiful  home.  I  should  n't  be  of  any  use  there  either, 
and  here  I  am  needed." 

"  But  I  will  give  you  five  times  the  money  you  could  earn 
by  sewing,"  urged  the  lady,  "  and  you  shall  bring  it  all  here." 

Ally  was  for  a  moment  staggered. 

"  So  you  would  help  us  more  by  going  than  by  staying," 


ALLY    FISHER.  245 

added  the  dame,  quite  forgetful  of  self  while  so  anxious  for 
tier  child's  welfare. 

"  But  mother,  who  would  hold  your  head  when  it  aches, 
and  bathe  your  temples,  and  kiss  away  the  pain,  and  then  sit 
and  watch  you  while  you  sleep?  And  when  the  trouble 
comes,  who  would  try  to  make  it  light,  and  help  you  find  all 
the  happy  things  to  weigh  against  it  ?  And  who  would  sit 
with  you  at  evening  when  you  are  so  lonely  ?  Who,  mother, 
would  read  the  Bible  to  you  ?  For  you  told  me  but  yester 
day  that  your  eyes  were  failing ;  and  who  would  —  would 
love  you,  mother  ?  Oh,  don't  send  me  away !  All  those 
beautiful  things  would  only  make  me  sorry  if  you  could  not 
have  them  too ;  and  so  you  must  let  me  stay  here  in  the  old 
house ;  for  it  is  the  only  place  where  I  can  be  happy.  God 
would  not  love  me  if  I  were  to  leave  you  with  all  the  children 
to  care  for,  and  none'  to  comfort  you  when  you  are  sad." 

The  lady's  eyes  were  quite  suffused  with  the  heart's-dew, 
as,  with  a  mental  blessing  on  the  young  girl's  head,  and  a 
silent  determination  to  reward  her  self-denying  spirit  richly, 
she  turned  away. 

"  You  have  sacrificed  yourself  for  my  sake,  Ally,"  sobbed 
the  dame,  folding  her  gentle  child  in  her  arms ;  "  Oh,  why 
did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  I  am  happier  here,  and  he  "  Ally 

pointed  to  the  bed  meaningly.  "  I  couldn't  mention  it  before 
her." 

"  Yes,  darling,  you  are  right,  as  you  always  are  ;  he  would 
kill  himself  without  you  in  a  week,  I  know.  But,  oh,  it  is  a 
dreadful  thing — my  poor,  poor  Ally!" 

Ally  was  at  her  sewing,  as  calm  and  quiet  as  though 
nothing  unusual  had  occurred,  though  there  was  a  singularly 
bright  spot  on  her  cheek ;  and  the  dame  had  busied  herself 
with  preparing  the  children's  supper,  when  Billy  Fisher  crept 
from  the  bed,  and  glided  half-timid ly  to  the  door. 

"  Don't  go  to-night,  father,"  whispered  Ally,  laying  her 
slight  hand  on  his,  and  fixing  her  large,  mournful  eyes  on  his 
face  most  feelingly.  "Don't  go;'  I  will  help  you  fix  the 
21* 


246  ALLY    FISHER 

chessmen  you  wanted  me  to  do  last  nignt ;  or  I  will  hem  the 
pretty  new  handkerchief  I  bought  for  you  to-day,  and  sing 
whatever  you  like  best  while  I  am  doing  it ;  or  I  will  read  to 
you  from  my  beautiful  library  book,  or  do  anything  you  like 

—  only  don't  go  !     It  is  very  lonely  here  without  you,  father." 
The  lips  of  the  miserable  man  parted  as  though  he  would 

have  replied;  but  the  word  seemed  choking  him,  and  he 
brushed  hastily  past  her.  Tears  came  to  Ally's  eyes  as  she 
turned  again  to  her  work ;  but  no  one  heeded  them. 

That  evening  passed  as  hundreds  of  others  had  done.  The 
children  were  all  sent  to  bed,  and  then  Ally  and  her  mother 
sat  down  by  their  one  tallow  candle  to  earn  bread  for  them. 

"  It  is  so  nice  to  be  together,"  said  Ally,  raising  a  face  all 
beaming  with  gratitude. 

"  Yes,  but  you  lose  a  great  deal  by  it,  dear." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  lose  nothing.  I  should  have  lost  a  great  deal 
if  I  had  gone  away  from  you.  Mother,  I  have  been  wonder 
ing  since  this  morning  that  God  has  been  so  kind  as  to  keep 
us  together,  and  I  so  ungrateful.  I  never  knew  how  happy 
it  made  me  to  be  with  you  till  now." 

"  We  never  see  half  the  blessings  that  God  bestows  upon 
us,  darling." 

Murmurer — you,  surrounded  by  comforts  and  elegancies, 
feasting  on  dainties,  and  rolling  in  luxuries  —  oh,  could  you 
but  look  in  upon  dame  Fisher's  cottage,  with  its  bare,  broken 
walls,  and  scanty  furniture !  And  yet  the  poor  drunkard's 
wife  was  really  more  deeply  blest  than  you — blest  with  the 
inner  wealth  of  "  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit."  She  never  mur 
mured. 

The  hour  of  ten  drew  near,  and  Ally's  quick  ear  caught 
the  sound  of  a  step  upon  the  door-stone. 

"  Father !  he  is  very  early.     Oh,  I  hope  he  has  not " 

She  had  no  time  to  finish  her  sentence.  The  door  was 
thrown  wide  open  with  a  quick,  earnest,  joyous  dash. 

"  I  have  done  it,  Ally,  my  bird  !     I  have  done  it !     There 

—  there — whist!  don't  look  so  frightened,  pussy;  it  is  noth 
ing  bad  —  it  is  something  good — very  good.     It  will  make 


ALLY    FISHER.  247 

your  little  heart  glad,  and  I  ought  to  make  it  glad  once  in 
your  sorry  life-time,  birdie  dear.  Shall  I  tell  you,  Ally  ?  I 
have  taken  the  step,  the  step ;  and  now,  darling,  your  poor 
mother  shall  have  somebody  to  love  her,  and  so  shall  you  too. 
Oh,  it  has  been  a  dreadful  course ;  it  has  almost  broken  my 
heart  sometimes  to  think  of  my  miserable  ways ;  and  I  have 
felt  the  worst  when  you  thought  I  was  stupid  and  did  not  care. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  determined  to  break  away,  but  then 
I  was  tempted,  and  couldn't.  Now  I  have  done  it,  never 
another  drop  to  my  lips  ! — so  help  me  God  ! " 

That  night  there  was  not  so  happy  a  house  in  all  the  State 
of  New  York,  as  the  wretched  hovel  to  which  Billy  Fisher 
had  brought  such  unexpected  joy.  And  Ally.  Oh,  no!  she 
never  regretted  having  sacrificed  her  own  bright  prospects  to 
the  happiness  of  those  she  loved  ;  for  never  was  human  heart 
more  deeply  blest  than  gentle,  trusting  Ally  Fisher's.  Other 
and  more  brilliant  blessings  now  cluster  around  her  path ;  but 
these  are  mere  trifles  compared  with  that  great  first  one. 

It  was  thine  own  work,  sweet  Ally ;  thy  never-failing  gen 
tleness  it  was  which  won  him.  Go  on,  pure-hearted  one ! 
there  is  still  more  good  for  thee  to  do. 

"  Still  thy  smile  like  sunshine  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art." 


248 


EDITH    RAY. 

PITY  that  Albums  should  have  gone  out  of  fashion,  'Bel. 
I  feel  like  an  emigrant  revisiting  the  old  homestead,  when  I 
open  the  embossed  red  morocco  doors,  and  see  the  mystic 
furniture,  in  black  and  white,  just  as  it  came  from  the  hands 
of  the  machinists,  and  yet  so  unlike  what  it  was.  To  be  sure, 
there  are  emigrants  who  have  journeyed  farther  and  been 
longer  gone ;  but  Change  labors  with  the  rapidity  of  second 
class  Irish  fairies,  and  I  find  but  little  as  I  left  it.  Come  to 
our  nestling-place  on  the  sofa,  and  let  us  examine  some  of 
these  tributes  from  my  school-mates.  Those  delicate  little 
crow-quill  touches,  surmounted  by  the  two  turtle  doves  on  a 
green  sprig  smaller  than  themselves,  and  unlike  anything  that 
ever  grew,  are  Edith  Ray's.  I  have  her  bright  face  before 
me  now,  as  it  looked  when,  despite  her  notions  of  pretty  pen 
manship,  she  assumed  her  own  character  long  enough  to  give 
that  preposterous  nourish  to  the  final  y ;  then  clapped  her 
dainty  little  hands,  and  laughed  at  her  own  work,  as  fully 
conscious  of  its  childishness,  (billing  doves  and  all,)  as  such 
wiseacres  as  you  and  I,  'Bel,  are  this  morning.  I  thought 
the  whole,  especially  the  doves,  miracles  of  prettiness  then ; 
and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  am  no  happier  since  I  have 
discovered  that  they  are  things  to  laugh  at. 

Edith  Ray  was  a  joyous  creature,  with  a  heart  so  brimming 
over  with  mirthfulness,  that  every  one  who  came  into  her 
presence  caught  the  infection.  She  was  gentle  and  delicate 
too,  and  yet  fearless  as  a  young  eagle ;  doing  whatever  she 
purposed  in  the  face  of  all  opposition ;  and  telling  the  most 
unwelcome  truths,  particularly  when  she  might  thus  unmask 
hypocrisy,  or  expose  anything  mean  and  cringing.  Yet 
everybody  loved  her  ;  for  although  she  possessed  a  dangerous 


EDITH   RAY.  249 

power,  it  was  never  called  into  exercise  for  the  purpose  of 
crushing;  being  kept  in  check  by  a  kind  and  affectionate 
heart.  Edith  Ray,  as  all  who  saw  her  would  be  very  likely 
to  suppose,  was  an  only  child,  and  quite  an  heiress  withal ; 
so  it  is  not  strange  that  she  should  take  a  conspicuous  place 
among  the  Alderbrook  belles.  The  schoolmaster  used  to 
quote  poetry  to  her,  and  bring  her  bouquets.  Mr.  Sherrill,  a 
dashing  young  law  student,  was  the  companion  of  all  her 
horse-back  rides,  and  walked  with  her  to  the  church-door 
every  Sabbath  morning,  with  the  evident  hope  of  one  day 
handing  her  in  very  gracefully ;  and  the  doctor,  the  grocer, 
and  a  "  wild  slip "  of  a  dry  goods  merchant,  had  severally 
shown  an  interest  in  Mr.  Ray's  affairs  truly  gratifying.  Yet 
Edith  would  parody  the  schoolmaster's  verses  most  ludicrously 
to  his  face  ;  give  her  gallant  squire  the  slip  whenever  it  suited 
her  convenience  ;  and  ridicule  the  pretensions  of  the  others 
outright.  It  is  strange  that  the  Argus-eyed  supervisors  of  our 
little  village  had  no  suspicions  as  to  the  real  cause  of  Edith's 
indifference  to  her  admirers  ;  but  certain  it  is  that  a  pale,  stu 
dent-like  face  passed  in  and  out  of  Mr.  Ray's  door,  particularly 
on  rainy  evenings,  and  at  other  times  when  gayer  ones  would 
not  be  likely  to  interrupt  the  visit,  without  exciting  the  least 
remark.  Perhaps  it  was  because  all  had  decided  that  the 
widow's  son  never  would  introduce  a  new  mistress  into  the 
parsonage  ;  and  perhaps  the  improbability  of  the  grave  young 
pastor's  taste  leading  him  to  make  such  a  selection.  What 
ever  the  cause  might  have  been,  there  was  certainly  an  im 
portant,  life-lasting  secret  locked  fast  in  the  hearts  of  Mr.  Rob- 
son  and  bright  Edith  Ray.  The  young  lovers  were  strikingly 
contrasted  in  outer  seeming  ;  but  there  was  a  rich  under-cur 
rent  in  the  characters  of  both  that  perfectly  harmonized ;  so 
Edith  feared  only  for  her  own  volatility  when  she  gave  her 
heart  into  another's  keeping,  and  the  young  pastor  prayed 
only  that  he  might  be  able  to  repay  the  trust.  The  betrothal 
passed,  and  still  the  secret  was  not  discovered  ;  though  Edith 
had  unconsciously  assumed  a  gentler  manner,  and  a  sweeter 
expression,  which  could  not  fail  to  excite  observation. 


250  EDITH   RAY. 

As  I  said  before,  Edith  Ray  feared  nothing  but  to  do 
wrong;  and  her  daring  had  been  so  much  the  subject  of 
remark,  that  she  felt  some  pride  in  exhibiting  her  courage  ;  a 
quality  which  her  young  friends  took  every  opportunity  to 
test.  Unknown  to  her  companions,  however,  there  was  one 
point  on  which  Edith  was  vulnerable  ;  she  had,  when  a  little 
child,  seen  her  own  mother  stretched  out  in  death  —  she 
remembered  the  rigid  limbs,  with  their  white  covering,  giving 
a  fearful  mystery  to  their  half-revealed  outlines  —  and  any 
thing  that  bore  the  slightest  resemblance  to  such  a  form,  in 
spired  her  with  horror. 

It  was  on  a  fine  moonlight  night  in  midwinter,  that  a  social 
group  had  assembled  in  Mr.  Ray's  parlor ;  and  Edith,  unlike 
her  wont  when  Mr.  Robson  was  present,  had  been  the  gayest 
of  the  party.  As  the  evening  drew  to  a  close,  Mr.  Sherrill 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  a  book  of  engravings  that  had  disap 
peared  from  the  parlor;  a  desire  which  Edith  declared  such 
an  evidence  of  improved  taste,  that  it  should  be  instantly 
gratified.  She  tripped  lightly  from  the  room ;  and  as  she 
disappeared  we  all  observed  that  Sherrill  crept  carefully 
toward  the  door.  The  next  moment  a  short,  shrill  cry,  fol 
lowed  by  a  low,  half-choked  sound,  as  of  one  strangling, 
brought  us  to  our  feet.  With  one  bound  poor  Sherrill  was  in 
the  adjoining  apartment;  but  he  was  scarce  in  advance  of  the 
young  pastor.  The  rest  of  us  followed  hastily,  alarmed  at, 
we  knew  not  what.  But  we  soon  knew.  Upon  a  long  table 
lay  extended  an  object  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  with  the 
moonbeams  flickering  over  it,  revealing  the  fearful  outlines 
of  a  human  figure  with  apparent  certainty.  Before  this 
crouched  young  Edith  Ray,  with  her  fingers  clenched  in  the 
masses  of  long  hair  descending  on  each  side  of  her  face,  her 
eyes  distended,  and  a  white  foam  wreathing  her  motionless 
lips. 

"  Edith !  my  own  Edith  !"  whispered  Robson,  in  a  voice 
hoarse  with  agony. 

Edith  started  to  her  feet,  and  the  mocking  walls  echoed  her 
wild  unnatural  laugh. 


EDITH    RAY.  251 

"  Look,  Edith  —  look!"  entreated  Sherrill;  "it  is  noth 
ing  ;"  and  he  shook  out  two  or  three  cloaks  artfully  arranged. 
"  Nothing  but  these  —  I  did  it,  Edith  —  I  did  it  —  I  put  them 
there  to  scare  you  ! " 

Edith  -only  laughed  again. 

Mr.  Robson  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  led  her 
quietly  back  into  the  parlor  ;  and  poor  Sherrill  followed  and 
crouched  at  her  feet,  beseeching  her  but  to  speak  one  word, 
only  one  word  just  to  show  that  he  had  not  murdered  her. 
But  the  stricken  girl  only  twined  her  hair  helplessly  about 
her  fingers,  and  smiled. 

Three  years  have  rolled  away,  but  they  have  wrought  no 
change  on  the  darkened  spirit  of  Edith  Ray.  Mr.  Robson 
still  occupies  the  parsonage,  but  he  has  grown  graver,  and 
gentler,  and  more  spiritual  than  ever ;  and  the  young  repress 
their  smiles  and  soften  their  voices  when  he  comes  near ;  for 
untold  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing.  The  neighbors  say  that  Par 
son  Robson  is  wholly  devoted  to  his  books,  and  the  care  of 
his  flock.  But  they  make  a  marvel  of  one  thing.  It  is  a 
great  wonder  to  them  what  is  the  attraction  at  poor  Mr.  Ray's, 
that  he  should-  spend  his  two  hours  there  every  evening. 
They  never  saw  the  stricken  Edith  at  his  feet,  gazing  up  into 
his  face  with  an  expression  of  childish  confidence  ;  nor  heard 
her  low,  mournful  murmur  when  he  went  away.  Our  young 
pastor  is  ever  found  among  the  sick  and  sorrowing  ;  but  every 
effort  to  draw  him  into  social  life  fails ;  for  the  poor  wreck, 
which  clings  to  him  even  in  her  idiocy,  is  still  borne  upon  his 
heart. 


252 


KITTY   COLEMAN. 

AN  arrant  piece  of  mischief  was  that  Kitty  Coleman,  with 
her  winsome  ways  and  wicked  little  heart !  Those  large,  be 
wildering  eyes  !  how  they  poured  out  their  strange  eloquence, 
looking  as  innocent  all  the  while  as  though  they  had  peeped 
from  their  amber-fringed  curtains  quite  by  mistake,  or  only 
to  join  in  a  quadrille  with  the  sunlight !  And  then  those 
warm,  ripe  lips  !  the  veritable 

"  rosy  bed, 
That  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in." 

That  is,  a  well-bred  bee,  which  cared  to  pillow  his  head  on 
pearls  white  as  snow,  on  the  heaven-side  of  our  earthly  at 
mosphere,  and  sip  the  honey  of  Hybla  from  the  balmy  air 
fanning  his  slumbers.  And  so  wild  and  unmanageable  was 
she  !  Oh  !  it  was  shocking  to  "proper  people  !"  Why,  she 
actually  laughed  aloud — Kitty  Coleman  did!  I  say  Kitty, 
because  in  her  hours  of  frolicking,  she  was  very  like  a  juve 
nile  puss,  particularly  given  to  fun-loving :  and,  moreover,  be 
cause  everybody  called  her  Kitty,  but  aunt  Martha.  She  was 
a  well-bred  woman,  who  disapproved  of  loud  laughing,  romp 
ing,  and  nicknaming,  as  she  did  of  other  crimes ;  so  she 
always  said,  Miss  Catharine.  People  always  have  their  trials 
in  this  world,  and  Kitty  Coleman  (so  she  firmly  believed) 
would  have  been  perfectly  happy  but  for  aunt  Martha.  She 
thought,  even,  that  Miss  Catharine's  hair — those  long,  golden 
locks,  like  rays  of  floating  sunshine  wandering  about  her  shoul 
ders,  should  be  gathered  up  into  a  comb ;  and  once  the  little  lady 
was  so  obliging  as  to  make  a  trial  of  the  scheme ;  but,  at  the 
first  bound  she  made  after  Rover,  the  burnished  cloud  broke 
from  its  ignoble  bondage,  and  the  little  silver  comb  nestled 
down  in  the  long  grass  forever  more.  Kitty  was  a  sad  romp. 


KITTY    COLEMAN.  253 

It  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  of  one  we  all  loved  so  well,  but  aunt 
Martha  said  it,  and  shook  her  head,  and  sighed  the  while ; 
and  the  squire,  aunt  Martha's  brother,  said  it,  and  spread  open 
his  arms  for  his  pet  to  spring  into  ;  and  careful  old  ladies  said 
it,  and  said,  too,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  young  ladies  now-a-days 
should  have  no  more  regard  for  propriety  !  and  even  Enoch 
Short,  the  great  phrenologist,  buried  his  bony  fingers  in  those 
dainty  locks,  that  none  but  a  phrenologist  had  a  right  to  touch ; 
and,  waiting  only  for  the  long,  silvery  laugh,  that  interrupted 
his  scientific  researches,  to  subside,  declared  that  her  organ 
of  mirthfulness  was  very  strikingly  developed.  It  was  then 
a  matter  past  controversy ;  and,  of  course,  Kitty  was  expected 
to  do  what  nobody  else  could  do,  and  say  what  nobody  else 
had  a  right  to  say ;  and  the  sin  of  all  was  chargeable  to  a 
strange  idiosyncrasy,  a  peculiar  conformation  of  the  mind,  or 
rather  brain,  over  which  she  had  no  control ;  and  so  Kitty 

was  forgiven,  forgiven  by  all  but we  had  a  story  to  tell. 

I  have  heard  that  Cupid  is  blind,  but  of  that  I  believe  not 
a  word.  Indeed,  I  have  confirmation  strong,  that  the  mali 
cious  little  knave  has  a  sort  of  clairvoyance,  and  can  see  a 
heart  where  few  would  expect  one  to  exist ;  for,  did  he  not 
perch  himself,  now  in  the  eye,  and  now  on  the  lip  of  Kitty 
Coleman,  and,  with  a  marvellously  steady  aim,  (imitating  a 
personage  a  trifle  more  dreaded,) 

"  cut  down  all, 
Both  great  and  small?  " 

Blind !  no,  no !  If  the  laughing  rogue  did  fail  in  a  single 
instance,  it  was  not  that  he  aimed  falsely,  or  had  emptied  his 
quiver  before.  Harry  Raymond  must  have  had  a  tough  heart, 
and  so  the  arrow  rebounded  !  Oh  !  a  very  stupid  fellow  was 
that  Harry  Raymond,  and  Kitty  hesitated  not  to  say  it ;  for, 
after  walking  and  riding  with  her  all  through  the  leafy  month 
of  June,  what  right  had  he  to  grow  dignified  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  look  upon  her,  when  he  did  at  all,  as  though  she  had 
been  a  naughty  child  that  deserved  tying  up  ?  To  be  sure, 

Harry  Raymond  was  a  scholar,  and  in  love,  (as  everybody 
oo 


25-4  KITTY    COLEMAN. 

said,)  with  his  books ;  but  pray,  what  book  is  there  of  them 
all,  that  could  begin  to  compare  with  Kitty  Coleman? 

There  used  to  be  delightful  little  gatherings  in  our  village, 
and  Kitty  must  of  course  be  there ;  and  Harry,  stupid  as  he 
was,  always  went  too.  People  were  of  course  glad  to  see 
him,  for  the  honor  was  something,  if  the  company  had  other 
wise  been  ever  so  undesirable.  But  Kitty  hesitated  not  to 
show  her  dislike.  She  declared  he  did  not  know  how  to  be 
civil ;  and  then  she  sighed,  (doubtlessly  at  the  boorishriess  of 
scholars  in  general,  and  this  one  in  particular,)  then  she 
laughed,  so  long  and  musically,  that  the  lawyer,  the  school 
master,  the  four  clerks,  the  merchant,  and  Lithper  Lithpet, 
the  dandy,  all  joined  in  the  chorus  ;  though  not  one  of  them 
could  have  told  what  the  lady  laughed  at.  Harry  Raymond 
only  looked  towards  the  group,  muttered  something  in  a  very 
ill-natured  tone  about  butterflies,  and  then  turned  his  back 
upon  them  and  gazed  out  of  the  window,  though  it  was  very 
certain  he  could  see  nothing  in  the  pitchy  darkness.  It  was 
very  strange  that  Kitty  Coleman  should  have  disregarded  en 
tirely  the  opinion  of  such  a  distinguished  gentleman  as  Harry 
Raymond;  for  he  had  travelled,  and  he  sported  an  elegant 
wardrobe,  and  owned  a  gay  equipage,  a  fine  house  and 
grounds,  "  and  everything  that  was  handsome."  But  she 
only  laughed  the  louder  when  she  saw  that  he  was  displeased. 
Indeed,  his  serious  face  seemed  to  infuse  the  concentrated, 
double-distilled  spirit  of  mirthfulness  into  her ;  and  a  more 
frolicksome  creature  never  existed  than  Kitty  was — until  he 
was  gone.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  grew  fatigued,  and 
must  go  home  immediately. 

Ah,  Kitty !  Kitty !  thine  hour  had  come ;  and  thou  wert 
learning  now  what  wiser  ones  had  long  been  endeavoring  to 
teach  thee  —  that  thy  mirth  was  but  "as  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  a  pot,"  soulless. 

It  was  as  much  on  Harry  Raymond's  account  as  her  own,  that 
aunt  Martha  was  distressed  at  the  hoydenish  manners  of  her 
romping  niece.  But  Kitty  insisted  that  her  manners  were  not 
hoydenish,  and  that  if  her  heart  overflowed,  it  was  not  her  fault. 


KITTY    COUEMAN.  255 

She  could  not  shut  up  all  her  glad  feelings  within  her ;  they 
would  leap  back  at  the  call  of  their  kindred  gushing  from 
other  bosoms,  and  to  all  the  beautiful  things  of  creation  as 
joyous  in  their  mute  eloquence  as  she  was.  Besides,  the 
wicked  little  Kitty  Coleman  was  very  angry  that  aunt  Mar 
tha  should  attempt  to  govern  her  conduct  by  the  likings  of 
Harry  Raymond ;  and,  to  show  that  she  did  not  care  an  apple- 
blossom  for  him,  nor  his  opinions  either,  she  was  more  unrea 
sonably  gay  in  his  presence  than  anywhere  else.  But,  what 
ever  Harry  Raymond  might  think,  he  did  not  slander  the  little 
lady.  Indeed,  he  never  was  heard  to  speak  of  her  but  once, 
and  then  he  said  she  had  no  soul.  A  pretty  judge  of  soul, 
he,  to  be  sure !  a  man  without  a  smile !  How  can  people 
who  go  through  the  world,  cold  and  still,  like  the  clods  they 
tread  upon,  pretend  to  know  anything  about  soul  ? 

But,  notwithstanding  the  enmity  of  the  young  people, 
Harry  Raymond  used  to  go  to  Squire  Coleman's,  and  talk  all 
the  evening  with  the  squire  and  aunt  Martha,  while  his  big, 
black  eyes  turned  slowly  in  the  direction  Kitty  moved,  like 
the  bewitching  sylphide  that  she  was ;  but  Kitty  did  not  look 
at  him,  not  she  !  What  right  had  a  stranger,  and  her  father's 
guest  too,  to  act  out  his  reproof  in  such  a  manner  ? 

When  Harry  went  away,  he  would  bow  easily  and  grace 
fully  to  the  old  people,  but  to  the  young  lady  he  found  it  dif 
ficult  to  bend.  Conduct  like  this  provoked  Kitty  Coleman  be 
yond  endurance  ;  and,  one  evening  after  the  squire  and  spinster 
had  left  her  alone,  she  sat  down,  and  in  very  spite  sobbed  away 
as  though  her  little  heart  would  break.  Now  it  happened 
that  the  squire  had  lent  his  visiter  a  book  that  evening,  which, 
strange  enough  for  such  a  scholar,  he  had  forgotten  to  take 
with  him ;  but  luckily  Harry  remembered  it  before  it  was  too 
late,  and  turned  upon  his  heel.  The  door  was  open,  and  so 
he  stepped  at  once  into  the  parlor.  Poor  Kitty  sprang  to  her 
feet  at  the  intrusion,  and  crushed  with  her  fingers  two  tears 
that  were  just  ready  to  launch  themselves  on  the  roundest  and 
rosiest  cheek  in  the  world ;  but  she  might  have  done  better 
than  blind  herself,  for,  by  some  means,  her  foot  came  in  un- 


256  KITTY    COLEMAN. 

intentional  contact  with  aunt  Martha's  rocking-chair,  and  her 
forehead,  in  consequence,  found  itself  resting  very  unceremo 
niously  on  the  neck  of  Rover.  It  is  very  awkward  to  be  sur 
prised  in  the  luxurious  abandon  of  tears  at  any  time ;  and  it 
is  a  trifle  more  awkward  still  to  stumble  when  you  wish  to 
be  particularly  dignified,  and  then  be  raised  by  the  last  person 
in  the  world  from  whom  you  would  receive  a  favor.  Kitty 
felt  the  awkwardness  of  her  position  too  much  to  speak,  and 
of  course  Harry  could  not  release  her  until  he  knew  whether 
she  was  hurt.  It  was  certain  she  was  not  faint,  for  the  crim 
son  blood  dyed  even  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  Harry's  face 
immediately  took  the  same  hue,  probably  from  sympathy. 
Kitty  looked  down  until  a  golden  arc  of  fringe  rested  lovingly 
on  its  glowing  neighbor ;  and  Harry,  too,  looked  down  on 
Kitty  Coleman's  face.  Then  came  a  low,  soft  whisper — low 
and  soft  as  the  breathing  of  an  infant ;  and  (poor  Kitty  must 
have  been  hurt  and  needed  support)  an  arm  stole  softly  around 
her  waist,  and  dark  locks  mingled  with  her  sunny  ones,  and 
Kitty  Coleman  hid  her  face — not  in  her  hands. 

Empty  gayety  had  failed  to  win  the  heart  of  Harry  Ray 
mond  ;  but  the  tears  were  triumphant. 

Harry  forgot  his  book  again  that  night,  and  never  thought 
of  it  till  the  squire  put  it  into  his  hand  the  next  morning ;  for 
Harry  visited  the  squire  very  early  the  next  morning.  Very 
likely  he  came  on  business,  for  they  had  a  private  interview; 
and  the  good  old  gentleman  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  said,  "  with  all  my  heart ;"  and  aunt  Martha  looked  as 
glad  as  propriety  would  let  her.  As  for  Kitty  Coleman,  she 
did  not  show  her  face,  not  she  ;  for  she  knew  they  were  talk 
ing  about  her — such  a  meddler  was  Harry  Raymond  !  But, 
as  the  arrant  mischief-maker  bounded  from  the  door,  there 
was  a  great  rustling  among  the  rose-bushes,  insomuch  that  a 
shower  of  bright  blossoms  descended  from  them,  and  reddened 
the  dewy  turf;  and  Harry  turned  a  face  brimming  over  with 
joy  fulness  to  the  fragrant  thicket,  and  went  to  search  out  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance. 

Now  it  happened  that  Kitty  Coleman  had  hidden  in  this 


KITTY    COLEMAN.  257 

very  thicket,  and  she  was,  of  course,  found  out ;  and — I  do 
not  think  that  poor  Kitty  ever  quite  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  her  fall,  for  the  arm  of  Harry  Raymond  seemed  very  ne 
cessary  to  her  forever  after. 

The  mirth  and  mischief? 

Oh,  they  vanished  with  the  falsehood  which  supported 
their  semblance,  when  the  first  dawnings  of  love  made  the 
heart  serious ;  for  love  and  happiness  always  fling  the  weight 
of  feeling  upon  gayety,  smothering  its  vain  sparkles.  The 
rich  draught  is  never  in  the  foam  and  bubbles  that  dance 
upon  the  brim.  The  heart  never  laughs  ;  but  the  deeper  the 
sunshine  that  blesses  it,  the  less  it  looks  to  outer  things  for 
blessings ;  and  so  the  world  never  prizes  its  light.  The  gay 
may  have  hearts,  but  they  have  never  learned  to  use  them  — 
never  learned  to  think,  to  feel,  to  love.  Who  will  may  imitate 
Kitty  Coleman  and  the  butterflies  ;  but  there  are  those  who 
are  wiser,  and  love  better  the  sweet  seriousness  beaming  like 
the  mellow  August  moon-ray  above  hidden  heart- treasures. 
22* 


253 


ROBERT    FLEMMING; 

A   VERITABLE   TALE,    SHOWING 

"WHAT  THAT  BOY  DID  COME  TO  AT  LAST." 

"  RACHEL,"  said  a  young  farmer  to  his  wife,  as  lie  entered 
the  house,  leading  by  the  hand  a  curly-headed  little  fellow, 
with  a  particularly  bright  eye  and  a  mouth  with  a  particularly 
roguish  curl  to  it  —  "Rachel,  you  were  wishing  yesterday 
you  had  a  boy;  I  have  brought  one  home  to  you." 

The  young  woman  dropped  the  broom  which  she  was 
wielding  with  much  spirit,  and  turning  short  round,  placed 
her  two  bared  arms  akimbo.  "Well,  Eben  Howe,  you  are 
just  the  strangest  man  that  I  ever  saw.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  I  can  do  with  a  boy,  when  I  have  everything  under  the 
sun  to  do,  and  nobody  to  help  ?" 

"  Why,  it  is  to  help  you  that  I  have  brought  him  home, 
Rachel." 

"  Help !  yes,  I  '11  warrant  me,  such  help  as  I  get  from 
everybody  that  comes  into  this  house.  You  brought  grand 
mamma  to  help  me,  too,  I  suppose,  and ' 

"  Rachel ! "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  of  sorrow 
ful  surprise. 

"  Not  that  I  mind  the  trouble  with  her,"  resumed  the  wife, 
not  much  abashed  ;  "  there  's  nothing  that  I  like  better  than 
waiting  on  grandmamma ;  but  you  've  no  idea,  Eben,  of  the 
wear  and  tear  of  the  slavish  life  I  lead.  Here  's  the  baby  has 
done  nothing  but  cry  all  day  long " 

"Well,  well,  Rachel;  never  mind " 

"Never  mind!  Oh,  yes,  that's  always  the  way.  If  I 
should  kill  myself,  you  'd  say  'never  mind  !' " 

"  I  mean  don't  mind  anything  about  the  boy.  I  got  him  to 
assist  you;  but  if  you  think  he  would  make  trouble " 

"Make  trouble,  Eben?     Why,  I  would  rather  do   every 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  259 

chore  myself  than  have  the  trouble  of  following  after  a  boy, 
watching  to  see  that  things  were  done  right,  and  slaving 
myself  to  death  to  do  his  washing  and  mending." 

"  Very  well,  Rachel,  I  can  take  him  back  to-morrow,  when 
I  go  to  carry  the  wool  to  Smith's.  I  wish  we  could  contrive 
some  way  of  lightening  your  cares,  though.  If  you  would 
only  cdnsent  to  hire  a  girl " 

"Hire  !  No — no ;  I  'm  not  the  lazy  woman  you  take  me 
for,  Eben  Howe.  Hire,  indeed !  Why,  I  should  have  the 
whole  neighborhood  laughing  at  me,  as  they  do  at  that  shift 
less  Mrs.  Wood.  No;  I'll  work  my  fingers  off  up  to  the  joints, 
before  I  '11  have  it  said  that  Rachel  Ellis  set  up  for  a  lady  as 
soon  as  she  got  married,  and  ruined  her  husband  by  her 
extravagance." 

"  Nobody  would  say  that,  Rachel.  But  supposing  we  adopt 
a  little  girl,  would  she  make  as  much  trouble  as  a  boy?" 

"A  thousand  times  more.  I  would  n't  bring  up  a  girl  for 
the  world." 

Mr.  Howe  glanced  at  the  cradle. 

"  One  not  my  own,  I  mean.  A  girl  could  n't  cut  wood  and 
take  care  of  the  cattle  when  you  were  gone." 

"  And  a  boy  could." 

"Yes;  and — he  could  look  after  the  baby." 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  help  scrub  floor." 

"Of  course." 

"And  run  of  all  sorts  of  errands." 

"  And  bring  water  from  the  spring." 

"And  —  and — oh,  a  boy  could  do  a  great  deal.  Then  I 
could  alter  over  your  old  clothes  for  him,  and  we  never  have 
a  scant  table ;  so  the  keeping  woujd  n't  be  much." 

"  A  mere  trifle.  But  consider  the  trouble  to  yourself, 
Rachel." 

"Why,  as  to  that,  I  am  pretty  strong  yet,  and  shouldn't 
mind  a  little  more  work,  if  the  boy  was  faithful  and  willing. 
I  hope  he  did  n't  come  from  a  poor,  miserable  hut,  like  the 


260  ROBERT   FLEMMING. 

Murphys ;  we  never  could  break  him  of  his  bad  habits,  if  he 
did." 

"  The  boy  has  been  well  taught,  I  am  certain,  Rachel.  If 
he  had  bad  habits,  he  would  be  unlike " 

Howe  hesitated  to  say  whom,  and  his  wife,  without  noting 
it,  inquired  —  "What  kind  of  a  bargain  have  you  made, 
Eben?" 

"If  we  conclude  it  is  best,  we  can  have  him  three  months 
on  trial " 

"  Three  months,  and  haying  and  harvesting  all  over ! 
Why,  a  baby  could  do  all  the  chores  we  shall  have  to  do/7 

"  Oh,  that  is  of  no  great  consequence " 

"  I  tell  you,  Eben  Howe,  it  is  of  a  great  deal  of  consequence 
when  you  take  any  one  on  trial,  that  there  should  be  plenty 
of  work  to  do,  and  that  of  the  right  kind." 

"Yes  —  yes,  I  know  it,  Rachel;  but  if  three  months  don't 
satisfy  us,  I  presume  we  can  try  him  a  year ;  we  can  keep 
him  as  long  as  we  please,  and  send  him  away  when  we  please. 
Poor  woman  !  she  has  not  the  power  to  choose,"  he  added,  in 
an  under  tone. 

"Ah,  that  is  something  like.     \Vhat  then  ?" 

"  Why,  if  we  finally  conclude  to  keep  him,  we  are  to  con 
sider  him  as  our  own  boy,  treat  him  well " 

"I  hope  we  are  not  the  folks  to  treat  him  ill." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  not,  Rachel.  Then  \ve  are  to  feed 
and  clothe  him  only " 

"  Only  !  I  guess  you  'd  not  say  only,  if  you  knew  what 
that  would  be.  He  '11  wear  out  clothes  faster  than  I  can 
make  them,  I  '11  warrant,  and  eat  as  much  as  a  man." 

"  So  you  think  it  will  be  very  expensive  to  keep  him?" 

"  No,  not  expensive  exactly — no,  not  at  all.  I  told  you 
that  I  could  manage  the  clothing  part  nicely,  and  one  mouth 
in  a  family  where  there  's  always  plenty  don't  make  much 
difference." 

"But  the  trouble  to  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  n't  mind  it  much.  I  suppose  we  can  keep 
him  till  he  's  twenty-one  ?  " 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  261 

"Yes,  if  he  is  bound." 

"Well,  we  won't  have  him  bound.  I  would  n't  have  a 
bound-boy  about  the  house.  He  shall  be  free  to  go  any  min 
ute  he  chooses  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  if  he  prove  to  be  a  good 
boy,  we  will  keep  him  to  bring  up,  and  do  well  by  him,  won't 
we,  Eben  ? " 

"  That  can  be  decided  hereafter ;  but  there  's  one  more  item 
in  the  bargain.  We  are  to  send  him  to  school  three  months 
every  year." 

"  To  school,  indeed !  And  where  's  the  money  to  come 
from,  and  the  —  and  the — ?  Now,  Eben  Howe,  can  you 
think  of  doing  such  a  foolish  thing  as  that  ?  Three  months 
every  year !  A  quarter  of  the  time  idled  away,  books  torn 
and  money  spent,  and  all  for  nothing  but  to  keep  a  lazy,  good- 
for-nothing  boy  away  from  his  work  ! " 

"I  should  n't  like  to  have  anyone  about  my  house  that 
could  n't  read." 

"Mercy  me,  I  hope  not  —  that  couldn't  read  the  Bible! 
We  are  not  quite  such  heathen  yet.  But  do  tell  what 's  the 
use  of  so  much  schooling?" 

"  It  is  no  more  than  I  hope  all  American  boys,  however 
poor,  will  be  able  to  receive,  Rachel.  Education,  you  know 
the  lecturer  told  us  last  evening,  is  the  'freeman's  birthright.' 
What  say  you,  Rachel ;  shall  we  keep  him  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  we  shall  do  any  better.  Have  you 
had  your  supper,  boy  ? " 

During  this  long  dialogue,  the  little  fellow,  now  for  the 
first  time  addressed,  had  stood  digging  with  his  bare  toes  into 
a  crack  between  the  boards  of  the  floor,  his  roguish  black  eye 
fixed  upon  a  sleepy  dog  that  lay  stretched  in  the  corner,  and 
his  fore-finger  very  intent  on  poking  itself  through  the  braids 
of  his  straw  hat.  Thus  called  upon,  however,  he  turned  his 
little  round  face  for  the  first  time  upon  Mrs.  Howe,  and  while 
his  cherry  cheek  became  purple,  and  his  plump,  pouting  lips 
rolled  back  still  farther,  very  deliberately  answered,  "  I  guess 
I  shan't  stay  here ;  I  don't  like  to  be  scolded  at." 

"  Robert !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Howe,  in  alarm  — "  Robert !" 


262  ROBERT    FLEMMING. 

"  Well  taught,  indeed  ! "  began  his  wife,  in  an  angry  tone 
"Well  —  well,  Eben  Howe " 

"  My  name  is  n't  'Well  Eben  Howe,' "  said  the  little  fel 
low,  straightening  himself  up  and  drawing  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  as  though  he  had  received  a  great  insult,  "  my 
name  is  Robert  Flemming  !  " 

"  Robert  Flemming,  eh  ? "  laughed  Mrs.  Howe,  excited  to 
mirth,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  the  look  of  offended  dignity 
which  accompanied  the  boy's  disclaimer.  "Master  Robert 

Flemming,  I  suppose  we  must  call  you,  and .  Bless  me, 

the  child  is  eating  up  his  own  hat !  Ha,  ha  ! " 

The  boy  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  speaker,  as  though 
unable  to  comprehend  such  a  singular  character,  then,  appar 
ently  satisfied  with  his  scrutiny,  joined  his  clear,  silvery  voice 
with  hers  in  a  very  merry  laugh ;  and  springing  forward,  laid 
his  curly  head  on  the  neck  of  the  dog,  and  a  moment  after, 
was  rolling  over  the  floor,  engaged  in  a  rare  frolic  with  his 
new  companion.  The  baby,  as  a  child  nearly  a  year  old  was 
called,  hearing  the  racket,  raised  its  little  night-capped  head 
from  the  cradle,  and  clapped  together  its  dimpled  hands,  and 
crowed  with  infinite  delight;  while  grandmamma,  crippled  by 
age  and  rheumatism,  hobbled  forward  and  stood  in  the  door 
way,  joining,  with  her  cracked,  hollow  voice,  in  the  general 
expression  of  mirth.  Mr.  Howe,  too,  laughed,  amused  at  the 
turn  affairs  had  taken  no  less  than  by  the  gambols  of  the  boy 
and  dog,  till  at  last  recollecting  himself,  he  called  Jowler 
away,  and  patting  Robert  affectionately  on  the  head,  bade 
him  bring  his  bundle  from  the  cart  and  stow  it  away  in  the 
loft,  which  was  to  be  his  sleeping-place. 

Robert  Flemming  was  a  beautiful  boy  (if  health  and  hap 
piness  can  shed  beauty  on  a  face  made  up  of  rather  irregular 
features)  of  eight,  possessed  of  his  full  share  of  animal  spirits, 
his  young  head  overshadowed  by  the  clouds  of  an  unusually 
dark  fortune,  but  with  a  heart  that  bounded  as  lightly  in  his 
bosom  as  ever  heart  could  bound.  His  mother  was  a  delicate 
young  creature,  that  had  been  made  a  wife  before  she  was 
capable  of  comprehending  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  263 

the  station ;  and  now  her  loving  heart  was  well  nigh  crushed 
beneath  the  weight  of  her  many  cares,  and  she  labored  and  wept 
from  morning  till  night,  and  all  night  long  upon  her  pillow 
strained  her  aching  head  with  visionary  projects  that  the  com 
ing  light  was  sure  to  dissipate.  The  father  of  little  Robert  was 
one  of  those  who,  perhaps  as  often  as  better  men,  lead  to  the 
altar  the  gentle  and  pure-hearted,  —  a  man  of  gross  appetites 
and  feelings,  devoid  of  that  refinement  which  nature  herself 
grants  most  of  her  children,  a  slave  to  his  passions  and  a 
hopeless  drunkard. 

Ebenezer  Howe  had  known  Mrs.  Flemming  in  the  days 
of  childhood,  and  his  own  benevolent  heart  induced  him  to 
relieve  her  of  her  heaviest  burthen,  the  care  of  a  bold-spirited 
boy,  who  would  soon  be  grown  beyond  her  influence.  Yet 
the  poor  mother,  notwithstanding  her  own  destitute  circum 
stances,  had  stipulated  for  the  usual  privileges  allowed  a  boy 
in  his  situation,  and  gained  a  promise  that  his  education 
should  not  be  neglected.  "  For,"  said  she,  "  he  is  a  wild 
boy  and  a  careless  boy,  though  a  better  heart  never  beat ;  but 
I  don't  know  what  the  poor  little  fellow  will  come  to  at  last. 
I  have  taught  him  to  read,  myself,  while  I  sat  sewing  for 
bread ;  and  I  would  work  still  harder  and  send  him  to  school, 
rather  than  to  have  him  grow  up  in  ignorance." 

Mr.  Howe  too  well  understood  his  wife's  foibles  to  make 
known  to  her  the  true  reason  of  his  taking  a  boy  to  "bring 
up ;"  and  so  he  treated  it  as  a  matter  of  interest  and  conve 
nience  merely,  trusting  that  the  child  himself  would  soon 
enlist  her  better  feelings  in  his  welfare.  Mrs.  Ho\ve  was  not 
a.i  unkind  woman  as  far  as  action  was  concerned,  but  she 
owned  a  tongue  that  was  incorrigible.  Never  human  being 
was  so  difficult  to  please  if  the  fault-finding  were  left  to  her 
self;  and  yet  she  was  a  wonderful  adept  at  smoothing  away 
difficulties  and  removing  even  her  own  objections  to  a  plan 
when  she  heard  them  from  the  lips  of  another.  Her  benevo 
lence,  which  was  oftentimes  real  and  heartfelt,  was  subject  to 
the  whimsical  variations  of  her  fitful  nature  ;  for  she  was 
always  capricious  and  sometimes  unreasonably  exacting.  But 


264  ROBERT   FLEMMING. 

of  all  good  housewives  Mrs.  Howe  was  the  very  best.  Her 
table  linen  was  as  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  her  table  — 
oh,  it  would  have  gladdened  any  stomach  not  perverted  by 
French  cookery  to  look  upon  it.  Then  her  floors  (she 
would  n't  have  such  a  dirty  thing  as  a  carpet  —  not  she)  were 
scrubbed  with  soap  and  sand  every  morning,  and  her  chairs 
bottomed  with  basket  work,  her  pine  mantelpiece  and  cupboard 
shelves  had  entirely  lost  the  yellow  hue  peculiar  to  the  wood, 
and  vied  with  her  carefully  bleached  window-curtains  in 
whiteness.  Now  all  this  could  not  be  accomplished  without 
a  vast  amount  of  labor ;  and  hence  Mrs.  Howe's  cares,  of 
which  her  husband  had  spoken  so  feelingly.  Yet  no  one,  who 
had  once  looked  on  the  plump,  rosy  face  and  robust  figure  of 
the  young  wife,  would  fail  to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  her  being 
careworn. 

Mrs.  Howe  soon  began  to  love  little  Robert  very  dearly, 
though  he  kept  her  in  constant  fear  by  his  carelessness,  and 
every  day  she  was  heard  to  wonder  what  that  boy  would 
come  to.  If  he  attempted  to  bring  the  castor  to  the  table  he 
was  sure  to  drop  it ;  the  meat  always  got  burned  when  he  was 
stationed  to  watch  it ;  the  wood  that  he  cut  was  either  too 
large  or  made  into  fine  splinters ;  and  when  he  milked,  if  the 
cow  neglected  to  set  her  foot  in  the  pail,  Jowler,  who  was  ever 
by  his  side  in  field,  house  or  barn-yard,  substituted  his  nose 
and  paw,  placing  it  in  the  condition  of  the  country  maid's  in 
the  spelling-book.  Yet  Robert  was  not  an  ungrateful  lad ; 
and  when  Mr.  Howe  talked  seriously  to  him  of  his  careless 
ness,  he  would  make  —  oh,  such  firm  resolves  never,  ?iever  to 
cause  his  kind  benefactor  another  moment  of  trouble,  that  no 
one,  could  those  resolves  have  been  rendered  visible,  would 
have  doubted  his  reformation.  But,  alas  for  Robert !  no 
sooner  did  Jowler  rub  his  cold  nose  against  his  hand,  or  little 
Hetty  crow  from  the  cradle,  than  the  admonitory  voice  of  his 
master  was  drowned  in  his  own  mirthful  shout,  and  his  ad 
monitions  entirely  obliterated  from  memory.  Mrs.  Howe 
scolded  and  flattered  by  turns,  now  threatening  to  send  him 
home,  again  raising  her  hand  to  give  him  a  blow,  which  the 


ROBERT   FLEMMING.  265 

little  fellow  always  contrived  to  dodge,  and  at  other  times 
laughing  immoderately  at  the  amusing  nature  of  his  blunders. 
If  Robert  could  have  been  spoiled,  this  was,  of  all  others,  the 
very  place  for  doing  it ;  but  somehow  every  influence  over 
him  seemed  powerless  either  to  sober  or  corrupt  his  heart. 
So  it  still  remained  a  great  mystery  to  Mrs.  Howe  and  to  Mr. 
Howe,  and  to  some  of  the  Howes'  less  interested  neighbors, 
what  that  boy  would  come  to  at  last.  "  There  is  enough  in 
him"  was  a  very  common  remark,  "  but — ."  Then  followed 
an  ominous  shake  of  the  head.  Certainly  Robert  Flemming 
was  not  in  a  position  to  have  his  talents,  if  talents  he  had, 
understood  and  developed.  Perhaps  it  was  the  position  which 
shadowed  his  promise. 

What  an  oddity  is  a  country  newspaper  !  —  always  retail 
ing  second-hand  news  that  is  news  no  longer,  relating  anec 
dotes  that  have  been  fifty  times  repeated,  and  reviving  old 
worn-out  tales  which  would  otherwise  go  down  to  oblivion. 
And  yet,  somehow,  this  news  is  always  worth  hearing,  these 
anecdotes  are  at  least  as  witty  as  some  of  the  new  ones,  and 
these  tales  are  very  apt  to  be  sensible  and  moral.  But  one 
thing  is  certain  —  nowhere  will  you  find  better  informed  peo 
ple —  that  is,  those  who  better  understand  all  the  principal 
movements  of  the  day,  whether  political,  moral  or  religious, 
than  the  readers  of  a  country  newspaper.  The  reason  may 
be  that  they  have  so  little  else  to  read.  At  any  rate,  that  was 
why  little  Robert  Flemming  pored  so  untiringly  over  the  two 
sheets  which  weekly  found  their  way  into  Mr.  Howe's  dwell 
ing.  About  the  time  the  newspaper  was  expected  to  arrive, 
it  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Howe  issued  his  orders  and  Mrs. 
Howe  scolded,  in  vain  did  Jowler  jump  and  Hetty  crow. 
Robert  responded  to  each,  but  not  heartily  ;  he  said,  "  I  will, 
sir,"  to  Mr.  Howe  ;  "  Yes'em,"  to  Mrs.  Howe  ;  twisted  Jow- 
ler's  collar  about  his  unconscious  hands  till  the  poor  dog  was 
half  choked ;  cried  "  Bo-peep  "  to  Hetty  through  his  fingers 
when  his  head  was  turned  the  other  way,  and,  in  the  midst 
of  the  whole,  darted  off  to  the  road  to  look  for  the  post-boy. 

;  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Howe,  one  day,  when  this  had  occurred 
23 


266  ROBERT   FLEMMING. 

at  precisely  the  moment  when  she  was  wanting  a  pail  of  wa 
ter —  "  Well,  if  this  is  n't  enough  to  wear  out  the  patience  of 
Job  !  I  don't  know  what  that  boy  will  come  to  at  last,  but  — ;' 
then  followed  a  solemn  shake  of  the  head.  "  He  is  the  worst 
boy  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  can't  bear  any  longer  with 
him,  I  am  sure  I  can't.  I  wish  all  the  newspapers  were  burnt 
up." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  was  the  quiet  response,  "  that  the 
year  will  be  out  soon,  and  — " 

"  You  don't  think  of  stopping  the  paper  ?" 

"  It  might  be  well  to  stop  it  for  a  quarter,  for  Robert  is  get 
ting  very  troublesome,  and  we  should  neither  of  us  like  to  part 
with  him  just  now." 

"  Really,  Eben  Howe,  I  shouldn't  think  that  of  you,  after 
your  grand  notions  about  schooling  and  such  like  things. 
Why,  do  you  think  I  would  keep  house  without  as  much  as 
one  paper  ?  It 's  but  little  time  I  get  to  read,  to  be  sure,  such 
a  dog's  life  I  lead  of  it ;  but  I  should  be  ashamed  to  own  we 
were  such  heathen  as  not  to  take  a  newspaper." 

«  Well,  what  shall  we  do,  Rachel  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Why,  it  is  pretty  government  that  you  have,  I 
must  say,  to  let  a  boy  like  that  ride  over  you  rough-shod  !  I  'd 
tie  him  to  the  bed-post,  if  I  could  n't  do  anything  else  with 
him." 

"  I  don't  know  of  anything  that  would  be  likely  to  please 
him  better." 

"  Now,  Eben,  that  is  going  a  little  too  far.  I  know  Rob 
ert's  faults  as  well  as  anybody,  but  it  can't  be  said  that  he  is 
a  lazy  boy.  He  does  twice  as  much  as  Joseph  Smith,  and 
Joe  is  four  years  older  than  he.  No  —  no;  let  Robert  be 
what  he  may,  he  is  industrious  —  I  '11  say  that  for  him." 

"  Yes,  industrious  enough  when  he  takes  the  fit ;  but  look 
at  him  now  ;"  and  Mr.  Howe  pointed  to  the  roadside,  where 
Robert,  perched  upon  the  fence,  was  eagerly  unfolding  his 
damp  paper. 

This  was  the  signal  for  an  attack  upon  the  boy ;  and  his 
capricious  mistress  wheeled  about  as  readily  as  was  her  wont. 


ROBERT    FLEMM1NG.  267 

Robert  obeyed  her  boisterous  call,  though  rather  hesitatingly ; 
and,  being  in  the  midst  of  a  spirited  description  of  a  tiger  hunt, 
he  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  read  as  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
house. 

"  Come,  go  to  work,  you  good-for-nothing  blockhead  ! " 
exclaimed  the  vixen.  "  Do  you  suppose  we  are  to  give  you  a 
good  home  and  clothe  and  feed  you  for  nothing  ? " 

"  Yes'ern  ! "  replied  Robert,  mechanically ;  for  the  tiger 
had  just  turned  about  ready  for  a  spring  upon  her  pursuers, 
and  the  story  had  become  intensely  interesting. 

This  time  Robert's  art  as  a  dodger  failed,  or  it  may  be  that 
he  neglected  to  use  it,  for  Mrs.  Howe's  hand  came  down  cer 
tainly  not  very  gently  on  his  ear,  which  so  surprised  the  ab 
sent-minded  young  gentleman  that  he  gave  a  scream  and  a 
leap,  alighting  at  last  upon  poor  Jowler's  paw.  The  yell  of 
the  dog,  together  with  the  instability  of  his  footing,  induced 
Robert  to  take  another  step,  which  brought  him  in  contact 
with  the  cradle  ;  and  the  next  moment  he  found  himself  on 
the  other  side,  little  Hetty  kicking  and  screaming  beside  him, 
and  Jowler  nosing  about  and  frolicking  in  the  midst  as  though 
all  this  was  to  him  rare  sport.  The  entrance  of  a  neighbor 
at  this  juncture  was  like  slipping  from  the  hands  of  the  hang 
man  to  Master  Robert,  for  Mrs.  Howe  was  obliged  to  soothe 
the  baby,  and  Mr.  Howe  to  entertain  the  visitor.  "  I  don't 
know  what  that  boy  will  come  to  yet,"  was  all  he  heard  as  he 
made  his  exit,  grasping  the  unfortunate  cause  of  all  his  diffi 
culties  with  both  hands. 

Robert  profited  wonderfully  by  his  three  months  at  school ; 
and  Mrs.  Howe  felt  almost  a  mother's  pride  while  listening 
to  his  praises.  Yet,  morning,  noon  and  night,  as  regularly 
as  the  recurrence  of  his  meals,  came  the  scolding ;  so  that, 
in  process  of  time,  he  became  quite  accustomed  to  it,  and 
would  have  felt  much  surprise  at  its  omission.  But  notwith 
standing  Robert  gained  honor  in  the  district  school,  it  would 
not  balance  the  dishonor  he  gained  out  of  it ;  for  wasn't  it  he 
that  coaxed  the  boys  away  to  the  pond  to  slide,  the  day  they 
all  foil  in  and  got  such  a  wetting? — and  wasn't  it  he  that 


268  ROBERT   FLEMMING. 

lamed  Squire  White's  pony  when  he  made  the  poor,  awk 
ward  beast  enact  Bucephalus,  to  the  terror  as  well  as  admira 
tion  of  the  whole  .school?  To  be  sure,  in  the  first  case,  he 
risked  his  own  life  and  displayed  as  much  presence  of  mind 
as  ingenuity  in  saving  his  companions  ;  and,  in  the  other,  he 
took  untiring  care  of  the  injured  limb  till  it  was  quite  well 
again.  But  what  had  that  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  The  mis 
chief  was  done,  and  done  by  Robert,  and  everybody  wondered 
what  that  shockingly  bad,  hare-brained  boy  would  come  to. 
But  the  worst  of  it  was,  they  wondered  what  made  Mr.  Howe 
keep  him  —  a  wonder  which,  since  Mr.  Howe  himself  joined 
in  it,  was  like  to  prove  a  serious  affair  to  the  young  scape 
grace.  To  be  sure,  he  was  always  contriving  improvements 
—  some  useful,  some  of  them  complete  failures  ;  but  w^hat  did 
Mr.  Howe  want  of  a  boy  to  make  wind-mills,  plant  trees  in 
the  yard,  find  all  the  boys  in  the  neighborhood  in  hand-sleds 
and  balls,  and  ride  the  unbroken  colt  without  a  saddle  ?  Rob 
ert  was  industrious,  nobody  could  gainsay  that ;  but  such 
industry  !  He  declared  it  was  the  dullest  thing  in  the  world 
to  saw  wood  all  day,  unless  he  might  be  allowed  to  spoil  the 
saw  by  diversions  in  favor  of  the  line  of  beauty,  which  Rob 
ert  knew  even  in  babyhood  was  not  a  straight  line  ;  and  pick 
ing  stones  in  the  meadow,  when  no  opportunity  was  allowed 
him  for  building  palaces  and  pyramids,  was  an  employment 
he  detested.  Mr.  Howe  was  of  the  opinion  that  boys  should 
never  think  of  anything  but  what  they  are  bidden  to  do;  and 
so  Robert's  extra  services,  particularly  when  they  encroached 
upon  the  time  that  should  have  been  devoted  to  other  things, 
all  went  for  nothing ;  yet  he  could  not  bear  to  send  the  boy 
away,  for  he  was  the  best-hearted  little  fellow  in  the  world, 
and  in  one  case,  if  no  other,  showed  that  he  could  be  careful. 
Little  Hetty,  no  longer  a  baby,  followed  him  about  as  con 
stantly  as  did  old  Jowler ;  and  carefully  indeed  did  Master 
Robert  guard  her ;  carefully  did  he  lift  her  over  the  mud, 
finding  a  safe  spot  for  her  tiny  foot  on  the  dry  ground,  or  seat 
ing  her  on  the  soft  moss  while  he  gathered  buttercups  and 
daisies  for  her  ;  and  then  he  led  her  gently  by  the  hand,  and 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  269 

pulled  down  the  berry  bushes  that  she  might  pick  the  fruit 
with  her  own  fingers,  while  he  warned  her  against  the  thorns, 
and  drew  her  little  red  blanket  about  her  shoulders  lest  she 
should  suffer  from  the  cool  air. 

But  the  time  at  last  arrived  when  Robert  Flemming  was  to 
take  leave  of  his  kind  master  and  benefactor.  To  be  sure  he 
was  not  twenty-one,  but  the  farmer  concluded  as  he  had  set 
his  heart  on  going,  there  was  no  use  in  detaining  him,  though 
the  sacrifice  was  much  greater  than  he  had  anticipated 
"  But  it  is  my  mind,  Robert,  that  you  had  better  stick  to  farm 
ing,"  he  remarked,  shaking  his  head  gravely ;  "  it  is  the  most 
honorable  and  honest  of  all  callings,  and  can  never  disgrace 
anybody. 

Mrs.  Howe  thought  him  an  ungrateful  wretch,  to  forsake 
the  house  that  had  sheltered  him  so  many  years ;  talked  pa 
thetically  of  the  unsatisfying  nature  of  the  world  that  he  was 
going  out  to  try,  and  at  last  concluded  by  a  burst  of  tears  arid 
a  speech,  in  which  were  mingled  so  much  invective,  affection 
and  sad  apprehensions  for  the  future,  that  even  Robert,  accus 
tomed  as  he  was  to  her  moods,  felt  confused,  and  could  only 
say,  "  You  will  get  a  better  boy,  Mrs.  Howe.  I  have  made 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

From  little  Hetty,  as  she  was  still  called,  the  parting  was 
yet  more  difficult.  Hetty  had  all  her  mother's  spirit,  but  the 
disagreeable  example  continually  before  her  eyes  had  pre 
vented  her  from  displaying  it  in  the  same  manner,  and  her 
look  of  sorrowful  reproach  went  to  Robert's  heart.  He  knew 
how  sad  his  little  favorite  would  be  if  he  left  her  alone,  and 
for  a  moment  his  resolution  was  shaken.  Why  should  he  go 
away  from  the  friends  that  loved  him  dearly,  that  had  be 
friended  him  in  his  worse  than  orphan  state  ?  But  Robert 
hesitated  only  a  moment.  It  was  no  idle  caprice  that 
took  him.  away,  but  there  was  a  necessity  in  the  case  ;  his 
future  prospects,  his  personal  independence,  were  involved  in 
it.  So  he  led  his  little  playmate  to  the  top  of  the  hill  that 
looked  down  upon- the  neighboring  village,  and  there,  prom 
ising  that  he  would  see  her  very,  very  often,  and  would 
23* 


270  ROBERT    FLEMMING. 

always  bring  her  something  nice  from  the  town,  he  kissed 
her  forehead,  eyes  and  lips,  over  and  over  again ;  then,  dash 
ing  away  the  tears  that  he  thought  quite  unmanly  in  a  youth 
of  sixteen,  he  trudged  steadily  down  the  hill,  not  trusting 
himself  to  look  back,  for  he  knew  that  the  child  would  main 
tain  her  position  there  till  he  was  quite  out  of  sight. 

In  choosing  a  profession,  Robert  Flemming  was  true  to  his 
early  preference ;  and  with  the  flattering  credentials  furnished 
him  by  Mr.  Howe  and  his  old  schoolmaster,  it  was  not  diffi 
cult  for  him  to  gain  admission  into  a  printing  establishment, 
where  he  could  read  of  tiger  hunts  and  other  wondrous  things 
to  his  heart's  content.  We  have  no  inclination  to  follow  our 
hero  through  his  five  years  of  apprenticeship  —  not  dull,  oh, 
no  ;  —  time  never  hung  heavily  on  Robert  Flemming's  hands; 
but  sometimes  laborious,  and  never  without  its  peculiar  trials. 
The  indignities  to  which  a  sensitive  nature  is  subjected  by  its 
inferiors,  when  fortune  obliges  tbem  to  come  in  contact,  are 
not  borne  without  an  effort.  But  at  last  his  term  of  service 
expired,  and  then,  pennyless,  but  by  no  means  friendless,  he 
had  another  long  probation  to  undergo  ere  he  could  feel  him 
self  quite  a  man  among  other  men.  But  one  truth  had  been 
indelibly  impressed  on  the  mind  of  the  boy  by  his  sensible 
master,  which  many  young  men  of  promise  have  been  ruined 
by  not  understanding.  Young  Flemming  knew  that  in  this 
e very-day  world,  few  could  step  at  once  into  fortune  —  that 
persevering  industry  is  the  only  sure  ladder  to  preferment. 

A  country  wedding  is  an  affair  of  importance ;  and  when 
it  was  noised  throughout  a  certain  neighborhood  that  "  that 
wild  boy,  Robert,  had  returned  to  marry  Hetty,"  it  created  as 
great  a  sensation  as  the  arrival  of  a  foreign  danseuse  would 
have  produced  in  other  circles.  The  young  men  thought  the 
handsome  Miss  Hester  Howe,  heiress  to  all  her  father's  broad 
lands,  very  foolish  to  throw  herself  away  in  such  a  manner; 
the  young  misses  pursed  up  their  mouths,  both  pretty  and 
ugly,  and  declared  that  these  proud  folks  never  made  out  very 
well,  and  to  their  minds  she  deserved  nothing  better;  while 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  271 

the  old  people  all  agreed  that  it  was  a  "  pretty  risky  busi 
ness."  And  so  it  might  have  been,  but  our  idler  had  learned 
something  of  himself,  and  of  the  responsibilities  attendant 
upon  living  ;  and  a  change  had  come  over  his  mind  and  hab 
its.  And  the  Howes  acted  with  becoming  independence  on 
the  occasion  —  Mrs.  Howe  even  going  so  far  as  to  give  some 
of  the  most  impertinent  of  the  meddlers  "a  piece  of  her 
mind ;"  and  the  wedding  went  off  at  last  to  the  admiration 
of  everybody.  Robert  Flemming's  cheerful,  manly  face  and 
commanding  figure,  did  much  to  turn  the  current  of  public 
opinio7L  in  his  favor ;  and  the  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand  with 
which  he  met  his  old  acquaintances,  together  with  the  politi 
cal  information  that  he  furnished  Squire  White,  who  had  not 
seen  the  late  papers,  completed  his  conquest  over  their  hearts. 
Busily  wagged  many  a  tongue  on  the  morning  of  the  wed 
ding;  though,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  nearly  everybody  had 
foreseen  how  matters  would  turn  out,  from  the  very  first,  par 
ticularly  those  who  had  thrown  up  their  indignant  hands  the 
highest,  and  wondered  the  loudest  what  that  boy  would  come 
to. 

"  And  now  you  are  one  of  us  in  earnest,"  said  Mr.  Howe, 
wringing  the  tough  hand  of  the  bridegroom  ;  "  and  I  shall  be 
almost  as  proud  to  call  you  my  son  as  I  should  if  you  had 
been  a  farmer." 

"And  I  as  proud  to  call  you  father  as  though  you  were  a 
king,"  returned  the  young  man,  warmly. 

"President,  you  mean  —  say  president!"  exclaimed  old 
Squire  White,  warmly,  who,  from  having  been  a  "seventy- 
sixer"  thought  that  kings  should  be  classed  with  "  other  pi 
rates  and  robbers,"  and  never  let  slip  an  opportunity  to  lift  up 
his  voice  against  them.  "It 's  a  shame  for  American  boys  to 
be  talking  after  this  sort  of  the  oppressor  who  sets  his  heel 
on " 

"  But  presidents  and  presidents'  sons  should  n't  be  proud, 
you  know;  that  would  be  anti-republican,"  interrupted  Robert 
Flemming,  good-humoredly,  "  and  so  the  comparison  would  n't 
be  in  point." 


272  ROBERT    FLEMMING. 

"  Proud  !  —  no,  no,  that  they  should  n't,"  muttered  the  old 
man,  while  Robert  turned  again  to  his  father-in-law. 

"  It  shall  be  the  study  of  my  life  to  repay  the  kindness 
shown  to  an  untaught,  friendless  boy,  who,  without  you " 

"  Would  have  done  well,  Robert;  I  see  it,  I  know  it  now, 
though  there  was  a  time  when  I  used  to  have  my  fears  of 
what  you  would  come  to  at  last." 

"Now,  Eben  Howe,  do  get  out  of  the  way!"  exclaimed 
a  shrill  voice  close  at  hand  ;  "*how  can  the  dear  =boy  speak 
to  his  mother  while  you  stand  mumbling  and  fumbling  at  this 
rate,  owning  yourself  the  half-hearted  man  that  you  are,  never 
seeing  an  inch  ahead.  It  is  well  that  everybody  was  n't  so 
blind  Robert,  or  else "  The  old  lady  finished  the  sen 
tence  by  a  knowing  glance  towards  the  bevy  of  peony- 
cheeked  damsels  surrounding  her  daughter.  "And  yet 
here  you  stand  talking  with  all  the  old  men,  and  shaking 
hands  with  everybody,  as  though  you  had  n't  a  word  for  your 
mother." 

"My  mother  truly  —  doubly  so!"  said  the  young  man, 
imprinting  a  hearty  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  which,  although 
somewhat  withered,  now  glowed  with  the  excitement  of  the 
moment;  "and  the  very  kindest  of  mothers  have  you  been  to 
me,  from  the  moment  of  my  frolic  with  Jowler  (poor  old  Jow- 
ler  !  it  seemed  like  losing  a  human  friend  when  he  died)  up 
to  the  present  time." 

"Ay  —  ay,  so  you  say;  but  it  is  little  you  act  as  though 
you  thought  you  had  ever  received  the  least  kindness  from 
the  poor  creature  you  have  come  to  rob  of  all  she  ever  had 
to  love." 

The  raised  tone  of  voice  could  not  fail  to  reach  the  ears  of 
the  bride,  and  such  an  entreating  look !  It  might  have  melted 
a  sterner  heart  than  Mrs.  Howe's  —  that  is,  if  stern  hearts 
were  furnished  with  eyes  to  see  it  with. 

"  I  have  certainly  caused  you  no  small  degree  of  trouble," 
Robert  Flemming  began,  but  he  was  interrupted. 

"  No — no,  you  never  made  any  trouble,  Robert,  not  the 


ROBERT    FLEMMING.  273 

least ;  but  I  do  think  you  might  just  come  and  live  with  us  on 
the  farm,  where  there  's  thousands  to  support  us  all " 

"  Mother  —  mother,"  whispered  the  bride,  touching  her  arm 
with  a  finger  all  in  a  quiver,  "mother,  don't;  everybody  is 
hearing  you ;  don't,  I  entreat ! " 

"  And  what  if  everybody  is  hearing  me  ?  What  have  I 
said  to  be  ashamed  of  ?  I  say  there  's  thousands  for  us  all, 
and  it 's  a  shame,  and  a  sin,  and  a  disgrace,  for  Robert 
Flernming " 

"  But,  mother  dear,  that  has  been  all  settled,  you  know," 
again  interposed  the  bride,  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  has  been  all  settled;  but  who  settled  it, 
Hetty  Howe  —  Mistress  Hetty  Flemming,  as  I  suppose  I 
must  say  after  this  —  who  settled  it,  and " 

"We  will  unsettle  it,  Rachel,"  said  Mr.  Howe,  with  a 
glance  which  added,  "  What  a  pity  nobody  but  me  knows 
how  to  manage  her  ! " — "  we  will  unsettle  it,  and  Robert  shall 
live  with  us  willy  nitty" 

"  Shall !  you  don't  mean  shall,  I  hope  ?  Robert  has  always 
had  his  own  way,  and  I  'm  the  last  one  to  interfere  with  his 
doings,  though  he  does  take  the  heart  out  of  me  and  leave 

the  old  house  desolate.  It  is  a  sad  thing  —  a  sad . 

There,  the  very  papers  of  cake  I  had  put  up  for  the  Thomp 
sons  !  I  never !  The  idea  of  Becky's  bringing  such  a  troop 
of  children  with  her  ! " 

Year  on  year  had  passed,  and  each,  as  is  the  custom  with 
years,  left  a  token ;  a  great  one  with  the  great,  and  a  simpler 
one  with  the  lowly.  Even  old  Time  is  an  aristocrat.  A 
church,  a  new  school-house,  and  a  cluster  of  dwelling-houses 
had  been  erected  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mr.  Howe ;  while 
another  Robert  Flemming,  as  roguish,  as  heedless,  and  as 
fond  of  newspapers  as  the  first,  had  grown  almost  as  tall  as 
his  father,  and  so  undertaken  the  management  of  his  grand 
father's  farm.  Everything  was  changed.  Even  a  new  gen 
eration  of  beings  had  sprung  up  around  the  old  farmer  and 
his  still  wrangling  but  kind-hearted  spouse. 


274  ROBERT   FLEMMING. 

It  was  a  bitingly  cold  night.  Ugh !  what  a  shiver  the 
swinging  of  a  door  sent  over  pleasant  fire-lit  rooms !  how 
thankful  thinking  people  were  for  the  roof  that  reflected  back 
the  blaze  upon  them  !  But  the  fireside,  lavishly  comfortable 
as  it  was,  was  not  all  powerful.  Affairs  of  importance 
were  to  be  discussed,  and  so  all  the  men  in  the  neighborhood 
were  collected  in  the  school-house.  A  thin-faced  man  had 
taken  the  chair,  and  a  fair-haired  one  beside  him  v.  ns  about 
unfolding  a  paper,  probably  fraught  with  weighty  matters, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  in  hobbled  old  Squire  White. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  crushed  newspaper,  his  long,  silvery 
hair,  which  was  usually  braided  over  his  bald  crown,  was 
straggling  about  his  shoulders  and  floating  off  on  every  puff 
of  air  ;  his  spectacles  were  across  his  forehead  instead  of  his 
nose,  and  the  Sunday  hat  of  his  grandson  was  stuck  jauntily 
(as  hats  too  small  must  be)  on  one  side  of  his  head. 

"  Hurrah,  boys  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  tottering  towards 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  flourishing  his  cane  with  an  arm 
not  yet  quite  nerveless  ;  "  returns  from  all  the  principal  coun 
ties,  and  the  'lection  is  sartin.  Three  cheers  for  Robert 
Flemming,  the  best  governor  that  ever  set  foot  in  York  state. 
The  blood  of  '76  is  a-stirring  yet,  I  can  tell  ye,  boys  !  Why 
don't  ye  shout?  Hurra  —  a  —  a!"  and  as  the  successive 
peals  died  away,  the  old  man  raised  his  palsied  hands  and 
exclaimed,  "  Well,  the  ways  of  Providence  are  marvellous  ! 
Who  would  have  thought  when  little  Bobby  Flemming  lamed 
my  pony,  that  he  would  ever  come  to  this  ? " 

It  is  possible  that  some  knowing  politician  may  attempt  to 
dispute  the  accuracy  of  my  veritable  history ;  but  I  defy  his 
ingenuity,  except  with  regard  to  the  name  of  Robert  Flem 
ming.  There  I  will  plead  guilty  to  romancing,  it  being  only 
a  veil  hung  by  the  hand  of  propriety  over  one  as  widely 
known  and  dearly  loved  as  any  on  whom  the  Empire  state 
has  ever  bestowed  her  honors. 


275 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 

[WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SHORT  ABSENCE.] 

GIVE  me  my  old  seat,  mother, 

With  my  head  upon  thy  knee  ; 
I  've  passed  through  many  a  changing  scene 

Since  thus  I  sat  by  thee. 
Oh  !  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes  — 

Their  meek,  soft,  loving  light 
Falls  like  a  gleam  of  holiness' 

Upon  my  heart  to-night. 

I  've  not  been  long  away,  mother , 

Few  suns  have  rose  and  set, 
Since  last  the  tear-drop  on  thy  cheek 

My  lips  in  kisses  met ; 
Tis  but  a  little  time,  I  know, 

But  very  long  it  seems, 
Though  every  night  I  came  to  thee, 

Dear  mother,  in  my  dreams. 

The  world  has  kindly  dealt,  mother, 

By  the  child  thou  lov'st  so  well ; 
Thy  prayers  have  circled  round  her  path, 

And  't  was  their  holy  spell 
Which  made  that  path  so  dearly  bright, 

Which  strewed  the  roses  there  ; 
Which  gave  the  light,  and  cast  the  balm 

On  every  breath  of  air. 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother  ; 

A  happier  never  beat ; 
And  even  now  new  buds  of  hope 

Are  bursting  at  my  feet. 


276  TO    MY    MOTHER. 

Oh,  mother  !  life  may  be  "a  dream," 
But  if  such  dreams  are  given, 

While  at  the  portal  thus  we  stand, 
What  are  the  truths  of  heaven  ? 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother ; 

Yet,  when  fond  eyes  I  see, 
And  hear  soft  tones  and  winning  words, 

I  ever  think  of  thee. 
And  then,  the  tear  my  spirit  weeps 

Unbidden  fills  my  eye  ; 
And  like  a  homeless  dove,  I  long 

Unto  thy  breast  to  fly. 

Then,  I  am  very  sad,  mother, 

I  'm  very  sad  and  lone  ; 
Oh !  there  's  no  heart,  whose  inmost  fold 

Opes  to  me  like  thine  own ! 
Though  sunny  smiles  wreathe  blooming  lips, 

While  love-tones  meet  my  ear  ; 
My  mother,  one  fond  glance  of  thine 

Were  thousand  times  more  dear. 

Then,  with  a  closer  clasp,  mother, 

Now  hold  me  to  thy  heart ; 
I  'd  feel  it  beating  'gainst  my  own 

Once  more  before  we  part. 
And,  mother,  to  this  love-lit  spot, 

When  I  am  far  away, 
Come  oft  —  too  oft  thou  canst  not  come  . — 

And  for  thy  darling  pray. 


277 


APRIL. 

THE  spring-time  is  coming,  the  merry -voiced  spring  ! 

Young  beauty  awakes,  with  the  wave  of  her  wing ; 

And  the  bright  heavens  ringing  with  music  and  mirth, 

From  hill,  vale,  and  woodland,  are  echoed  by  earth. 

The  spring-time  !  the  spring-time  !  there  come  with  the  word 

The  dash  of  the  glad  rain,  the  voice  of  the  bird, 

The  gushing  of  streamlets,  the  swelling  of  floods, 

The  springing  of  verdure,  and  bursting  of  buds. 

The  bright  spring  is  coming !  1  feel  even  now 

The  spirit-like  touch  of  her  breath  on  my  brow ; 

Her  varied  light  streams  over  valley  and  hill, 

And  breaks  in  gay  flashes  from  fountain  and  rill. 

But  the  flashing  of  eyes,  with  more  beautiful  light, 

And  the  streaming  of  tresses,  as  golden  and  bright, 

Are  missed  from  the  hearth-stone,  are  missed  from  the  hall, 

Nor  come  with  the  blossoms  of  spring  at  her  call. 

And  she  glads  not  the  mourner,  whose  treasure  is  crushed, 
And  laid  where  the  song  and  the  laughter  are  hushed, 
Though  golden-eyed  mosses  their  rich  mantle  spread, 
And  flower-censers  swing  o'er  the  grave  of  the  dead. 
Nor  glads  she  the  captive,  for  in  his  lone  cell; 
Waits  hollow-eyed  woe,  the  slow  moments  to  tell ; 
And  the  exile's  foot  falters,  as  memory  weaves 
Fond  tales  with  the  spreading  of  wings  and  of  leaves. 

Oh !  there  are  full  many  that  may  not  be  glad  ! 
Want's  children  are  haggard,  sin's  worshippers  mad ; 
Lips  bright  as  the  fruit-buds  are  steeped  in  despair, 
And  foot-falls  like  fairies'  grow  heavy  with  care ; 
24 


278  A  WISH.  —  ro  AN  INFANT. 

And  even  gay  spirits,  that  welcome  the  spring, 
As  they  move  in  the  sunlight,  a  dark  shadow  fling ; 
Glad,  glad  are  they  now, — with  the  weeper  they'll  weep; 
Life  bounds  in  each  pulse,  —  with  the  sleeper  they  '11  sleep. 


A  WISH. 

'T  is  beautiful !  't  is  beautiful ! 

That  soft,  rich,  half-veiled  light, 
Flung  by  the  beams  which  warmed  the  day, 

Upon  the  brow  of  night. 

So  when  life's  golden  day  shall  close, 

And  on  my  mother's  breast 
I  slumbering  lie,  may  love  still  smile 

Upon  my  shadowy  rest. 


TO  AN   INFANT. 

THE  glittering  wing,  that  a  leaf  might  crush, 
A  silvery  voice,  that  a  breath  might  hush, 
A  dew-drop,  quivering  on  a  flower, 
The  flickering  blush  of  the  sunset  hour, 
The  chain  of  pearls  round  the  brow  of  night, 
That  melts  and  is  lost  in  the  morning  light, — 
All  things  gentle,  pure  and  free, 
And  fragile,  are  but  types  of  thee. 


279 


THE   OLD   MAN. -A  FACT. 

THE  old  dry  leaf  came  circling  down. 

On  a  windy  autumn  day,  — 
The  leaf  all  sere,  and  glazed,  and  brown,  - 

On  the  bleak,  bare  hill  to  play ; 
And  the  sky  put  on  its  drearest  frown 

On  that  windy  autumn  day. 

The  heavy  clouds  went  drifting  by, 

As  gray  as  gray  could  be, 
And  not  a  speck  of  azure  sky 

Could  the  crime-chased  wanderer  see  ; 
That  dark  stern  man,  low  crouching  by 

The  gnarled  old  oak  tree. 

But  drearer  grew  the  inky  sky, 

As  daylight  fled  away ; 
And  the  winds  more  madly  hurried  by, 

As  if  they  dared  not  stay  : 
Howling  afar  and  shrieking  nigh, 

In  wild  unearthly  play. 

Then  the  old  man  shook  his  hoary  head, 

As  on  his  staff  leaned  he  ; 
For  the  sky  above  with  blood  seemed  red, 

And  the  earth  a  bloody  sea ; 
And  on  him  crimson  drops  were  shed 

From  the  boughs  of  the  old  oak  tree. 

Then  the  old  man  laughed  a  horrid  laugh, 

And  shook  his  head  again ; 
And  clenching  fast  his  crooked  staff, 

He  hurried  toward  the  plain ; 
And  the  hills  rung  back  his  hellish  laugh, 

And  the*  wild  winds  laughed  amain. 


280  THE    OLD    MAN. 

On,  on  he  strode,  but  still  there  rung 

Those  echoes  from  the  hill ; 
And  livid  clouds  above  him  hung, 

And  forms,  his  blood  to  chill, 
High  o'er  his  head  in  mid-air  swung, 

And  all  were  laughing  still. 

The  old  man  noted  not  his  way, 
For  his  heart  grew  cold  with  fear ; 

Grim  thoughts,  that  dare  not  meet  the  day, 
Were  muttered  in  his  ear, 

And  his  flying  feet  seemed  yet  to  stay 
Those  fearful  things  to  hear. 

He  had  trod  that  self-same  path  before, 

Ere  evening,  when  he  fled 
A  mangled  form  all  bathed  in  gore, 

And  to  the  hill-side  sped  ; 
And  now,  at  mid-night,  met  once  more 

The  murderer  and  his  dead. 

Hushed  were  the  winds,  the  clouds  rolled  back, 

And  on  that  lonely  dell, 
Revealing  full  a  blood-marked  track, 

The  cold,  pale  starlight  fell ;  — 
Ah  !  light  the  old  man  did  not  lack, 

His  handiwork  to  tell. 

He  had  loved  full  long  and  well  the  youth, 

In  cold,  dumb  quiet  lain; 
But  what  to  him  were  love  and  truth, 

For  bitter  words  and  vain 
Had  passed  that  day,  and  now,  in  sooth, 

He  ne'er  might  love  again. 

Morn  came  ;  and  on  one  fearful  bed, 

In  that  dark,  lonely  wild, 
With  sere  brown  leaves  of  autumn  spread, 

The  sun  looked  down  and  smiled ; 
Smiled,  though  there  lay  stiff,  cold,  and  dead, 

The  old  man  and  his  child. 


281 


GKANDFATHER. 

THE  old  man's  eyes  are  dim  and  cold ; 

His  pulse  beats  fitfully  and  low; 
He  whispers  oft,  "  I  'm  old  — I  'm  old ! " 

And  brokenly  the  sad  words  flow ; 
But,  like  the  troubles  of  a  child, 
The  old  man's  griefs  are  all  beguiled. 

The  hair  above  his  wrinkled  brow 
Is  braided  like  a  wreath  of  snow ; 

Years  have  not  made  his  shoulders  bow, 
But  his  worn  foot  is  weak  and  slow; 

And  totteringly  the  old  man  moves 

Among  the  things  his  fond  heart  loves. 

His  boyish  feats  are  o'er  and  o'er 
In  pride  recounted  every  day ; 

And  then  he  sighs  that  all  who  bore 
A  share,  have  mouldered  back  to  clay ; 

A  tear  just  wets  his  eyelid's  rim, 

Making  the  pale  eye  still  more  dim. 

But  soon  another  memory  wakes, 

Of  prank  wild,  mischievous,  and  bold ; 

His  trembling  voice  in  mirth  oft  breaks, 
While  merrily  the  tale  is  told ; 

And  then  he  laughs,  long,  loud,  and  free, 

And  claps  his  withered  hands  in  glee. 

But  tales  of  darker,  sterner  days, 

The  old  man  loves  the  best  to  tell,  — 

The  rumor  wild,  the  dumb  amaze, 
The  struggling  bosom's  fitful  swell, 


282  GRANDFATHER. 

While  Liberty  was  yet  in  bud, 

And  e'en  the  bravest  shrunk  from  blood. 

The  rude  old  church  within  the  wood 
Must  in  his  rambling  tale  have  share ; 

He  tells  how  one  blithe  day  he  stood 
Within  that  solemn  place  of  prayer, 

When  with  a  scroll  a  stranger  came. 

Which  turned  the  latent  fire  to  flame. 

How  throbbed  the  pulse  !  how  leaped  the  heart ! 

How  flashed  the  valor-lighted  eye  ! 
What  tears  from  close-shut  lids  would  start, 

Though  maiden  pride  suppressed  the  sigh ! 
How  many  a  cheek  forgot  its  glow, 
And  many  a  voice  was  choked  with  woe ! 

Now  hastes  the  old  man  in  his  story, 

Thick-coming  memories  on  him  crowd,  — 

The  proud  array,  the  battle  gory, 
The  buried  chieftain's  starry  shroud, 

The  midnight  march,  the  ambush  sly, 

The  savage  yell  and  victim's  cry. 

The  deed  of  daring  proud,  the  word  — 
Here  soaring  memory  stays  her  wing ; 

Some  melody  within  is  stirred, 

And  tears  are  trembling  on  the  string ; 

For  dearer  meed  the  brave  ne'er  won, 

Than  praise  from  lips  of  Washington. 

Around  the  things  of  later  years 

A  veil  of  shadowy  mist  is  cast ; 
The  clearest,  deepest  voice  he  hears, 

Steals  upward  from  the  distant  past ; 
And  as  the  lengthening  vista  grows, 
Each  far-off  vision  brighter  Mows. 


GRANDFATHER.  283 

He  's  going  downward  to  the  grave, 
The  good,  the  kind,  the  dear  old  man; 

A  worn  hark  drifting  on  the  wave, 

Which  the  soft  hreeze,  that  comes  to  fan, 

May  wreck,  while  other  vessels  lie, 

With  canvass  spread,  scarce  rocking,  nigh. 

He  's  going  downward  to  th,e  grave, 
Yet  bears  a  palm-hranch  in  his  hand ; 

Pauses  his  standard  high  to  wave, 

Ere  treading  on  the  hlood-bought  strand;  — 

Ah  !  church  and  hearth  will  mourn  thy  loss, 

Thou  brave  old  soldier  of  the  cross  ! 

I  love  that  dear,  kind,  wrinkled  brow  ; 

I  love  the  dim  and  faded  eye ; 
I  love  to  see  the  calm  saint  bow, 

With  those  he  loves  all  kneeling  by ; 
For  some  strange  power  must  sure  be  given 
To  prayers  breathed  on  the  verge  of  heaven. 


284 


THE   DYING  EXILE. 

THE  forms  of  those  I  love ! 

They  throng  around  me  now; 
And  my  mother's  soothing  hand 

Rests  on  my  aching  brow ; 
Her  face  is  o'er  me  bending, 

And,  again  a  boy,  I  lie 
In  the  dear  moss-mantled  cottage, 

To  the  gray  old  forest  nigh. 

My  brother's  bounding  step, 

And  thrilling  shout  of  glee, 
My  father's  eye  of  pride, 

As  he  turns  from  him  to  me ; 
My  sister's  clustering  ringlets, 

And  the  love-light  on  her  brow ;  — 
Oh  the  loved,  the  loved  of  childhood ! 

They  are  all  before  me  now. 

Soft,  soft  the  dewy  lips 

To  my  fevered  lips  now  pressed ; 
And  melting  are  the  meek  eyes 

That  on  me  fondly  rest ; 
Oh,  musical  the  voices 

That  float  about  my  bed, 
And  my  mother's  hand  is  resting 

Upon  my  aching  head. 

And  now  the  vision  wanes ; 

Strange  faces  meet  my  eye, 
And  careless  voices  say 

That  my  hour  has  come  to  die. 


THE    DYING    EXILE.  285 

Where  lofty  palm-trees  cluster, 

Or  long  bright  trailers  wave, 
Or  where  the  orange  blossoms, 

They  will  dig  the  stranger's  grave. 

Then,  when  the  white  snows  rest, 

Far,  on  a  frozen  plain, 
Love  will  a  footstep  wait 

That  shall  never  come  again. 
But  fond  feet  hurry  after, 

And  the  voices  that  I  love, 
When  they  call,  shall  have  an  answer 

From  the  exile's  home  above. 


END   OF   VOL.    I. 


ALDERBROOK: 


A   COLLECTION    OF 


FANNY  FORESTER'S 


VILLAGE   SKETCHES,    POEMS,   ETC 


BY 


MISS    EMILY    CHUBBUCK. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 

VOL.   II. 


EIGHTH     EDITION. 
REVISED,    WITH    ADDITIONS. 


BOSTON : 
WILLIAM    D.   TICKNOR   AND    COMPANY. 

Bl  DCCC  XLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18463  by 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts, 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE    SECOND    VOLUME 


THE  UNUSEFUL, 5 

NORA  MAYLIE, 15 

GRANDFATHER.  BRAY, 35 

SONNET  TO  WINTER, 49 

"        LIGHTS  AND  SHADES, 49 

"        THE  BUDS  OF  THE  SARANAC, 50 

BORN  TO  WEAR  A  CORONET, .    .    51 

WILLARD  LAWSON, 63 

A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON, 85 

THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY, 94 

NOT  A  POET, 107 

Two  NIGHTS  IN  THE  "NiEuw  NEDERLANDTS," 109 

LUCY  BUTTON, 121 

MYSTERY, 128 

THE  PRIEST'S  SOLILOQUY, 130 

AUNT  ALICE, 133 

MY  FIRST  GRIEF, 136 

THE  MIGNIONETTE,  (A  Fable,) 138 

MINISTERING-  ANGELS, 141 

THE  RAIN  A  THOUGHT-MAKER, 143 

GENIUS, 152 


IV  CONTENTS. 

LILIAS  FANE,     .          157 

THE  Two  FLOWERS, 176 

RUG  RAFFLES, 178 

THE  FRENCH  EMIGRANTS, 198 

IDA  RAVELIN,  (A  Fantasy,) 206 

To  SPRING, 242 

THE  POETESS,  (An  Allegory,) 244 

DORA', 247 

THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE, 256 

THE  DISSATISFIED  SPIRIT, 276 

To  MY  FATHER, 280 

FAREWELL  TO  ALDERBROOK, 282 


ALDERBROOK. 

VOL.    II. 


THE    UNUSEFUL. 

MAN  is  a  born  equestrian ;  and  from  the  time  when  mother 
Eve  fixed  her  anxious  heart  on  improving  her  condition,  and 
crushed  a  world  at  a  single  bound,  to  this  present  writing,  he 
has  never  lacked  a  hobby  whereon  to  exercise  to  his  heart's 
content.  And  it  is  no  tame,  gentle  exercise ;  for,  whatever 
the  hobby  may  be,  and  whether  well-mounted  or  otherwise, 
he  not  only  rides  tantivy,  but  hesitates  not  to  "  run  through  a 
troop  and  leap  over  a  wall."  We  have  innumerable  hobbies 
now-a-days ;  and  many  of  them  (to  our  credit  be  it  said)  are 
of  an  excellent  character.  But,  poor  things  !  they  are  ridden 
down  most  savagely. 

You  may  have  seen,  among  these  poor,  jaded,  spavined, 
wind-galled,  would-be-racers  of  beasts  of  burden,  a  huge  mam 
moth,  with  a  back  like  a  continent,  and  legs  like  those  of  Mark 
Antony  in  Cleopatra's  dream.  This  is  a  universal  hobby  that 
men  have  named  USEFULNESS  ;  and  such  strong  claims  has  it 
to  the  suffrages  of  all  but  the  butterflies,  that  whoever  eschews 
the  wing  of  the  idler,  must  needs  accept  a  seat.  There  is  no 
medium,  no  spot  of  terra  firma  on  which  we  may  stand  and 
labor  in  quiet,  sober  earnest ;  one  must  either  flutter  in  the  air 
a  giddy  thing,  or  gallop  away  almost  as  madly  on  the  back  of 
this  irresistible  hobby.  But  we  do,  verily,  constitute  a  goodly 
array ;  and  so  uncompromisingly  do  we  ride  down  every 
thing  that  is  elegant  and  beautiful,  and  indolently  lovely,  that 

VOL.   II.  1* 


6  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

we  are  even  in  danger  of  doubting  the  wisdom  of  the  Deity 
in  placing  those  soft,  sun-draped,  luxuriously  lazy  clouds  in 
the  summer  heavens ;  in  scattering  the  idle,  balm-breathing 
flowers  so  profusely  by  the  Way-side ;  and  in  sending  out  the 
play-loving  zephyrs  to  dally  through  the  live-long  day  with 
every  bud  that  has  a  lip  to  kiss,  and  every  light-poised  leaf 
that  palpitates  at  its  sly  whispers,  like  a  lady's  boddice  at  the 
first  word  that  takes  its  course  from  the  tip  of  a  lover's  tongue 
into  her  heart.  Yet,  our  hobby  is  a  most  noble  beast  origin 
ally.  What  a  great  pity  that  it  should  be  made  so  stupidly 
ungainly  by  its  mad  riders  !  A  finer  animal  never  lost  its  at 
tractiveness  by  man's  re-moulding ;  and  while  most  of  us  jolt 
along  upon  the  back  of  our  spoiled  hobby,  we  leave  its  spirit 
to  the  quiet,  unassuming  ones  who  close  one  hand  to  the 
labors  of  the  other.  What  can  be  more  beautiful  than  USE 
FULNESS —  the  great  object  of  our  present  existence?  What 
more  repulsive  than  the  deformed  images  to  which  each,  ac 
cording  to  his  particular  fancy,  gives  the  name  ?  So  many  a 
person,  giving  up  the  world  to  the  ultraists,  who  are  sent  to 
occupy  one  of  the  "  human  extremes,"  preserves  the  spirit  in 
its  purity,  and  is  most  unusefully  useful. 

Of  a  character  somewhat  resembling  this,  was  my  friend 
Nora  Maylie ;  though  I  think  that  in  its  formation  nature  had 
more  to  do  than  principle.  To  estimate  things  properly  and 
reasonably  requires  both  maturity  of  judgment  and  indepen 
dence  of  thought. 

Nora  Maylie  must  have  been  born  under  an  unpromising 
star,  for  in  infancy  she  was  fair,  fat,  and  good-natured ;  with 
out  any  of  that  unwelcome  vivacity,  so  illustrative  of  perpet 
ual  motion ;  but  with  a  very  knowing  look  upon  her  baby 
features,  that  told  you,  at  once,  the  repose  of  her  manner 
sprang  not  from  a  lack  of  good  sense ;  at  least  enough  of  it 
to  place  her  on  a  par  with  other  babies.  This  sensible  look 
was  Nora's  curse,  for  it  gave  her  a  preeminence  over  her 
sisters ;  and,  in  proportion  to  her  height  was  the  number  of 
stones  cast  at  her.  It  was  at  once  decided  that  she  was  born 
to  a  high  destiny ;  and  so  she  waddled  off  to  school  as  soon 


THE    UNUSEFUL.  7 

as  her  chubby  little,  feet  would  bear  her  weight.  But  physi 
ognomical  promises  are  deceitful.  Nora  was  not  a  particu 
larly  playful  child,  and  very  far  from  being  mischievous ;  but 
yet,  all  through  two  golden  summers  of  her  school-life,  she 
took  her  daily  course  from  a  to  zed>  without  once  dreaming 
but  her  whole  duty  consisted  in  echoing  back,  with  her  own 
pretty  lisp,  each  letter  as  it  was  pronounced  for  her. 

Nora  May  lie  was  the  youngest  of  five  daughters,  all  pro- 
fessional  women,  and  notedly,  eminently  useful.  I  will  not 
say  that  Rachel,  the  eldest,  could  make  a  nice  dish  of  tea,  or 
prepare  a  delicious  jelly  for  a  fevered  lip ;  but  she  could  make 
dresses  superbly.  She  was  perfect  in  her  art.  Not  that  she 
was  obliged  to  make  dresses — by  no  means !  Old  farmer 
Maylie  had  enough  in  scrip  and  granary  for  his  family,  with 
now  and  then  a  bit  to  keep  the  poor  around  him  from  a  sur 
feit  of  want;  but  that  made  no  difference.  Mrs.  Maylie 
hated,  not  idleness  merely,  but  a  tendency  to  dwell  on  the 
minutiae  of  life,  in  preference  to  taking  that  decided  stand 
indicative  of  a  ivoman  of  character.  She  was  herself  a  nota 
ble  housewife ;  and  she  had  always  privately  regretted  that 
she  could  boast  no  higher  excellence.  She  would  have  liked 
well  to  figure  more  largely  than  was  now  in  her  power — for, 
on  account  of  the  exclusively  domestic  character  of  her  edu 
cation,  the  office  of  directress  in  a  sewing  society  was  the 
highest  that  she  had  ever  been  able  to  assume.  She  was  a 
sensible  woman,  however,  and  not  only  wisely  kept  her 
chagrin  to  herself,  but  when  she  saw  that  Matilda,  her  second 
daughter,  evinced  a  fondness  for  such  vain  pursuits  as  dress 
ing  dolls,  and  painting  paper  flowers  with  sorrel-leaves  and 
Indian  strawberries,  she  at  once  decided  that  the  child  had  a 
great  genius  in  the  millinery  line.  Susan  and  Mary  had  a 
predilection  for  intellectuality,  and  took  to  books  as  readily 
and  naturally  as  ducks  take  to  the  genial  pool  while  yet  in 
pen-feathers;  and  so,  of  course,  they  must  be  teachers  — 
school-teachers  —  the  most  useful  of  all  the  multitudes  of 
useful  people  the  world  contains.  But  little  Nora,  (Mrs. 
Maylie's  diminutive  for  Eleanora,)  as  I  have  said,  was  an 


8  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

anomaly.  At  four,  she  took  patch-work  to  school ;  but  poor 
Nora !  she  could  n't  see  into  the  philosophy  of  over-and-over 
seams.  She  would  rather  spread  the  pretty  calicoes  on  her 
knee,  and  admire  their  bright  coloring,  or  twist  them  up  into 
dolls  with  paper  heads,  and  closely-pinned  drapery.  Then 
she  was  particularly  given  to  losing  thimbles,  and  knotting 
thread ;  and  her  needle,  however  clumsy,  was  always  bent  or 
broken  at  the  point, — the  legitimate  result  of  her  devotion  to 
badly  cracked  hickory  nuts.  And  then  such  stitches  !  Why 
the  little  girls  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  their  eyes  from 
very  merriment  at  the  sight ;  but  when  they  saw  the  big  drops 
standing  in  hers,  they  all  patted  her  velvet  cheeks  lovingly, 
and  smoothed  her  hanging  hair ;  and  if  they  found  her  incon 
solable,  made  a  chair  with  their  crossed  hands  and  bore  her 
away  in  triumph  to  the  play-ground.  In  their  wise,  confiden 
tial  talks,  they  used  to  say  that  Nora  Maylie  was  just  the 
dearest  little  creature  in  the  world,  but  it  was  a  great  pity  she 
could  not  sew.  As  some  compensation  for  my  little  friend's 
deficiencies,  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  that  she  was  a  good 
scholar ;  but  no  assertion  could  have  less  truth  in  it,  —  she 
was  just  no  scholar  at  all.  And  yet  I  am  not  certain  but  a 
careful  observer  of  human  nature,  even  though  less  shrewd 
than  the  worldly-minded  mother,  might  have  detected,  in  this 
very  backwardness,  this  refusal  to  trammel  the  mind  with 
that  which  seemed  in  no  wise  calculated  to  enrich  it,  the 
germ  of  a  higher  order  of  intellect  than  common  minds  ap 
preciate.  As  it  was,  however,  there  was  no  one  near  to  raise 
the  one  fold  of  ignorance  from  the  beautifying  soul  beneath  ; 
and  so  Nora  was  judged  by  her  non-attainments.  How  heart 
ily  she  hated  the  monotonous  a,  b,  c,  and  the  smart,  flippant 
a  b  ab,  e  b  eb,  i  b  ib,  that  made  her  companions'  tongues  re 
semble  so  many  mill-clappers.  When,  by  dint  of  constant 
dinging,  she  could  make  out  the  words  of  a  few  easy  sen 
tences,  such  as  "no — man  —  may — put — off — the — law — 
of — God,"  she  still  evinced  the  same  dead  level  of  intellect, 
and  hated  her  books,  and  hated  (as  poor  Mrs.  Maylie  often 
despairingly  observed)  everything  that  was  useful.  But  Nora 


THE    UNUSEFUL.  9 

did  not  hate  to  follow  her  mother  through  the  routine  of  her 
day's  labor ;  to  run  for  the  spoon  or  carving-knife  when  it 
was  wanted,  and  anticipate  the  thousand  little  wants  that 
occasion  a  careful  housewife  so  many  steps.  She  learned 
this  readily,  for  her  heart  was  her  teacher.  Neither  did  she 
hate  the  arrant  idlers  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  :  the  dal 
lying  breezes,  the  sleepy  flowers,  the  chatty  brooks,  and  the 
slow-sailing  clouds.  Oh  no !  they  were  too  like  her  dear 
little  self,  too  natural  and  graceful,  ay!  and  too  idle  withal, 
to  be  anything  but  friends  to  their  free  and  careless  playmate. 
Oh !  Nora !  Nora !  thou  wert  a  sore  trial  to  thy  poor  mother's 
heart !  but  what  a  pity  that  our  first  mother  could  not  have 
remained  contented  in  her  ignorance — then  we  might  all 
have  been  like  thee.  Dear,  darling  Nora  !  We  cannot  re 
spect  thee,  as  the  dictionaries  define  respect,  but  we  can  take 
thee  to  our  hearts  and  hold  thee  there  forever. 

Years  passed,  and  Nora  had  seen  a  dozen  summers.  She 
had  retrieved  her  character  at  school,  in  a  degree,  but  yet  she 
had  never  mastered  the  multiplication  table.  Every  word  of 
a  little  book  of  fairy  tales,  the  daily  object  of  Mrs.  Maylie's 
animadversions,  was  as  familiar  to  her  as  the  robin's  song 
trilled  forth  every  morning  beneath  her  window,  or  the  splash 
of  the  spotted  trout,  that  made  its  home  in  the  brook  at  the 
hill's  foot ;  Watts'  dear,  delightful  children's  melodies,  from 
"  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee,"  to  the  end  of  the  catalogue 
were  on  her  tongue's  tip,  to  say  nothing  of  the  "  Children  of 
the  Wood,"  and  other  ballads,  for  whose  loss  no  modern  rhym- 
ster  can  compensate  ;  but  Nora  could  not  repeat  a  rule  from 
Lindley  Murray.  When  not  engaged  in  homely  acts  of  love 
within  doors,  she  would  wander  from  field  to  field,  through 
meadow  and  copse,  over  hills  and  into  deep,  solemn  dingles, 
until  the  tangled  masses  of  hair  shaded  her  face  like  a  veil 
woven  of  golden  threads,  and  her  joyous  eyes  looked  out 
wonderingly  from  their  sunny  ambush,  like  two  renegade 
stars  that  had  leaped  from  their  azure  mounting  and  set  up 
for  themselves  in  the  amber  shades  of  an  October  wilderness 
There  she  would  lie,  hours,  beneath  a  shady  tree,  her  straw 


10  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

bonnet  by  her  side,  wild  flowers  scattered  aroand  her,  and  a 
bar  of  sunlight  resting  on  her  feet,  gazing  into  the  sky  with 
those  large  chamelion  eyes  all  bathed  in  light,  and  with  an 
intensity  belonging  only  to  idle  dreamers  like  herself. 

Time  still  went  on,  and  Nora  was  obliged,  like  her  sisters, 
to  choose  a  profession.  She  said  she  did  not  care ;  they 
might  bind  her  to  whatever  they  chose  ;  though  she  intimated 
that  if  they  could  provide  her  with  a  little  spade  and  a  little 
hoe,  she  should  by  all  means  prefer  horticulture.  Suck  an 
enchanting  spot  as  she  would  make  of  the  old  kitchen-garden ! 
The  beans,  and  cabbages,  and  onions  should  be  uprooted  at 
once.  The  peas  might  remain  —  though  she  would  have  all 
sweetpeas  —  but  all  the  other  weeds  should  give  place  to  the 
beautiful  violets,  and  tiarellas,  and  fringe-wort  that  she  would 
bring  from  the  woods.  And  Nora  Maylie  really  grew  ani 
mated  at  her  own  foolish  plans. „. 

If  truth  must  be  told,  Mrs.  Maylie  was  more  troubled 
about  the  perverseness  of  her  youngest  daughter  than  if  it 
had  been  any  of  the  others  ;  for  never  had  a  mother's  ambition 
a  more  beautiful  corner-stone  for  the  erection  of  its  castles 
than  this.  She  had  first  conceived  Nora  to  be  a  genius,  but 
she  had  waited  long  and  vainly  for  what  she  considered 
genius-like  developments.  Nora  was  unambitious  and  unas 
suming,  and  all  the  puffing  and  pushing  in  the  world  could 
not  make  her  other  than  what  she  was.  Disappointed  in  her 
first  hopes,  Mrs.  Maylie  had  set  her  heart  on  making  a  teacher 
of  Nora,  but  alas !  Nora's  head  was  not  of  the  right  stuff. 
She  loved  books  dearly,  but  such  books  !  Why  there  was  not, 
if  we  allow  Mrs.  Maylie  to  be  the  judge,  a  useful  one  among 
them  all !  She  revelled  in  the  enchanting  luxuries  of  literary 
flower-gatherers :  they  were  the  mirrors  to  reflect  her  own 
heart,  and  the  glorious  world  about  her,  and  her  own  imag 
inings.  But  what  science  for  a  school-teacher  !  Mrs.  Maylie 
was  in  a  dilemma.  She  hesitated  a  while,  and  then,  with 
praiseworthy  decision,  seized  it  by  the  only  horn  to  hang  a 
hope  upon.  It  was  decided  that  Nora  Maylie,  in  view  of  her 
tastefulness  and  lack  of  intellectuality,  should  be  a  milliner ; 


THE   UNUSEFUL.  11 

and  she  was  forthwith  sent  to  her  sister's  shop.  Matilda  was 
an  accomplished  business-woman,  giving  a  sharp  eye  to  all 
the  ways  and  means  of  trade,  and  she  perceived  at  once  that 
the  beautiful  face  of  her  young  sister  would  be  a  great  orna 
ment  to  her  front  shop.  Nora  was,  therefore,  placed  by  the 
side  of  the  forewoman,  for  the  express  purpose  of  fascinating 
customers ;  but  human  calculations  are  often  fallacious.  I 
have  intimated  before  (or,  if  I  have  not,  I  should  have  done 
so)  that  my  friend  Nora  had  an  unusual  share  of  artless  good 
nature,  kind  consideration  for  everybody  except  herself,  of 
whom  she  never  thought  a  moment ;  and  hence  she  was  ill- 
fitted  for  the  sphere  in  which  she  seemed  destined  to  act. 
The  very  first  day  of  her  appearance  as  a  tradeswoman,  she 
was  foolish  enough  to  tell  a  sallow-complexioned  lady  that  a 
pea-green  hat,  which  she  was  on  the  point  of  purchasing,  was 
unbecoming;  and  so  the  sale  was  lost.  Another  bonnet 
she  thought  too  heavily  laden  with  ornaments,  and  so  the 
purchaser  ordered  a  large  cluster  of  artificial  flowers,  on 
which  Matilda  had  resolved  to  speculate  a  little,  taken  from 
the  crown.  Matilda  expostulated  and  reasoned,  but  as  the 
simple  sister  only  opened  wide  her  beautiful  eyes  in  astonish 
ment,  and  seemed  utterly  incapable  of  appreciating  the  argu 
ments,  and,  moreover,  as  a  week's  trial  gave  no  symptoms 
of  reformation,  she  was  removed  to  the  back  shop.  But  here 
it  was  but  little  better ;  for  though  she  knotted  ribands  and 
arranged  flowers  with  exquisite  taste,  she  had  a  way  of  soft 
ening  the  drudgery  of  the  business,  not  at  all  pleasing  to  an 
inhabitant  of  Dollar-land.  If  she  had  been  satisfied  to  play 
the  idler  herself,  it  might  have  been  endured  ;  but  Nora  could 
not  bear  to  see  those  half-dozen  necks  bent  with  painful  im- 
movableness  over  bits  of  silk  and  stiffened  muslin ;  and  those 
eight  times  half-dozen  fingers  ply,  ply,  plying  the  needle  con 
stantly,  as  though  the  whole  of  existence  was  comprised  within 
the  contracted  space  enclosed  by  those  four  walls.  And  so 
she  bewildered  the  little  coterie  with  the  things  she  had  seen 
in  her  dreams ;  the  rounded  periods  falling  from  her  bulbous 
lips  slowly  and  vith  a  delicious  quietude  that  bewitched  while 


12  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

it  lulled  the  senses.  There  was  an  interested  uplifting  of  eye 
brows,  and  a  relaxing  of  ringers  when  she  spoke ;  and  smiles 
became  more  frequent  and  stitches  less,  until  the  detrimental 
influence  of  the  unuseful  sister  became  strikingly  apparent. 
The  prudent  Matilda  again  resorted  to  argument;  but  as 
Nora's  strange  obtuseness  on  these  subjects  seemed  uncon- 
conquerable,  she  was,  at  last,  obliged  to  discharge  her  thought 
less  apprentice  to  save  her  establishment  from  ruin.  Poor 
Nora !  she  was  deeply  pained  at  the  distress  her  friends 
evinced  on  her  account;  and  she  begged  to  be  taken  home, 
promising  to  do  anything  and  everything  there,  that  should 
be  required  of  her.  But  this,  as  has  been  already  seen,  was 
no  part  of  Mrs.  Maylie's  plan.  She  had  disposed  of  all  her 
daughters  as  she  desired,  and  if  she  had  manoeuvred  less  than 
mammas  who  seek  for  a  life-establishment,  she  did  not  take 
to  herself  less  credit  for  her  successful  management.  But  in 
the  case  of  her  youngest  daughter  she  had  entirely  failed. 
She  had  resolved  to  make  Nora  a  star,  but  Nora  would  not 
shine.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  make  her 
think  about  herself  long  enough  to  know  whether  she  shone 
or  not ;  and  the  idea  of  supporting  a  character,  even  for  five 
minutes,  would  have  been  oppressive  to  her.  Slowly  she 
moved  about  the  large,  old  farm-house,  with  a  step  as  noise 
less  as 

"  That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon," 

cheerful,  and  kind,  and  loving ;  but  as  characterless  as  the 
pet-lamb  which  she  led  about  the  garden  by  its  grass-woven 
collar.  Yet  rare  beauties,  rare  for  such  beauty-scorning  peo 
ple  as  the  Maylies,  sprang  up  beneath  her  touch  wherever  she 
turned.  Her  very  presence  seemed  to  infuse  into  everything 
about  her  a  calm,  quiet  loveliness ;  and  there  was  a  soft  re 
pose  in  her  manner,  that  made  her  h.  fluence  felt  by  the  most 
bustling  of  the  working-bees  in  that  busiest  of  all  busy  hives. 
Even  Mrs.  Maylie  looked  on,  and  wondered  that  everybody 
should  yield  to  Nora ;  and  wondered  that  with  her  lazy  ways 


THE   UNUSEFUL.  13 

she  could  accomplish  so  much ;  and  then  sighed  that  what 
was  accomplished  was  of  so  little  use.  To  be  sure,  Nora 
brought  the  easy-chair  to  her  father,  when  he  came  in  tired 
from  the  field  ;  and  smoothed  his  hair  and  kissed  his  cheek ; 
and  then  supported  the  basin  on  his  knee,  while  the  old  man 
bathed  his  heated  brow  with  the  cold  water  she  had  dipped 
from  the  spring ;  but  old  farmer  Maylie  had  been  his  life-long 
accustomed  to  waiting  on  himself,  and  this  was  an  unpar 
donable  waste  of  time.  And  Nora  carried  flowers,  fresh, 
fragrant  flowers,  into  her  mother's  little  bed-room,  and  re 
arranged  the  simple  furniture,  and  put  a  snowy  muslin  curtain 
in  place  of  the  soiled  paper  one,  at  the  window ;  and,  in  short, 
wrought  such  an  entire  change,  that  even  Mrs.  Maylie  her 
self  smiled  involuntarily  whenever  she  opened  the  door, 
though  she  was  always  heard  to  lament,  immediately  after, 
that  such  wondrous  talent  should  be  wasted  on  such  trivial 
pursuits.  But  it  was  with  her  brothers  that  Nora  Maylie  was 
the  all-in-all.  Hers  was  the  only  woman's  influence  that  they 
had  ever  felt ;  for  their  mother  and  elder  sisters  were  too 
much  like  themselves  —  pushing,  elbowing,  jostling,  calculat 
ing,  hurrying,  eating,  and  sleeping  —  both  of  those  last  in  a 
greater  hurry  than  any  of  the  others.  But  coming  into  Nora's 
presence  was  like  entering  a  new  atmosphere.  There  was 
something  superior  —  something  pure,  serene,  refining,  calcu 
lated  to  suppress  turbulent  passions,  and  noisy  tones,  in  her 
soft,  yielding  manner,  and  low,  musical  voice,  that  no  one 
could  resist.  The  bare,  gloomy  parlor,  which  was  never 
opened  but  to  company,  Nora  won  her  mother  into  giving  up 
to  her  direction,  and  soon  it  was  entirely  metamorphosed,  and 
made  a  delightful  withdrawing-room  for  the  family  in  the  cool 
of  the  day.  And  there  Nora  sat  with  her  brothers  :  her  lux 
uriously  developed  figure  so  simply,  yet  so  tastefully  draped* 
as  to  lead  one  to  believe  that  the  addition  of  a  single  fold 
would  mar  its  symmetry;  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
with  the  most  delicate  rose-tint  on  dewy  lip  and  downy  cheek, 
contrasting  strikingly  with  their  bronzed  labor-stained  faces  ; 
her  massy  volumes  of  hair,  folding  plainly  around  a  head 
VOL.  n.  2 


14  THE   UNUSEFUL. 

whose  beauty  would  have  mocked  the  chise  of  Pygmalion, 
and  gathered  into  a  magnificent  knot  behind ;  her  full,  white, 
exquisitely  moulded  hands  folded  over  a  manly  shoulder,  or 
wandering  like  lost  snow-flakes  among  dark,  stubby  clusters 
of  hair ;  her  breathing  lips  parted,  and  sounds  wandering 
thence  at  dreamy  intervals,  the  messengers  of  a  heart  all 
goodness,  all  simplicity,  all  love.  And  sometimes  she  would 
bring  books,  the  books  she  delighted  in ;  and  though  the 
brothers  never  glanced  their  eyes  over  such  pages  themselves, 
Nora's  soulful  voice,  with  its  bird-like  tones  and  eloquent  ca 
dences,  was  the  interpreter  between  the  poet's  heart  and  theirs. 
The  Masters  Maylie  used  to  boast  of  their  business-like  sis 
ters  ;  asserting  that  nobody  could  drive  bargains  like  Rachel 
and  Matilda ;  and  nobody  could  maintain  order  among  the 
rebellious  spirits  of  the  school-room  like  Susan  and  Mary ; 
but  their  hearts  always  fell  back  upon  the  unuseful  Nora,  and 
they  declared,  with  softened  faces  and  gentler  voices,  that  she 
was  good  for  nothing  but  to  love.  But  there  they  were  wrong. 
She  cheered,  she  encouraged,  she  smoothed  difficulties,  she 
soothed  peevishness,  and  softened  heartlessness ;  her  loving 
spirit  stealing  unobserved  on  all,  and  distilling  its  own  dews 
over  the  whole  household.  None  resisted  her  power,  for 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  resist.  It  was  impalpable,  undis- 
coverable,  and  yet  most  deliciously  felt,  most  unhesitatingly 
acknowledged.  Was  it  a  matter  of  regret  that  Nora  Maylie 
was  an  unuseful  woman  ? 

[I  did  not  promise  you  a  tale,  dear  reader,  (did  I  ?)  when  I 
commenced  this  sketch.  If  you  expected  one,  you  were  mis 
led  by  your  own  imagination,  for  I  thought  only  of  dashing 
off,  with  a  few  simple  strokes,  the  character  of  a  friend,  who, 
whatever  her  faults,  you  will  acknowledge  has  some  virtues. 
If,  however,  you  have  become  sufficiently  interested  in  gentle 
Nora  Maylie,  to  desire  to  hear  more,  I  may  resume  the  thread 
of  my  narrative  at  some  future  period.] 


NORA    MAYLIE. 

"Do!" 

Tell  more  of  Nora  Maylie  ?  Ah  yes !  with  pleasure ;  1 
love  dearly  to  think  of  her. 

Please  vacate  that  ottoman,  'Bel,  and  betake  yourself  to  the 
sofa.  My  first  sketch  was  written  on  that,  and  I  have  a  kind 
of  fondness  for  it;  "by  the  same  token,"  as  an  Irish  woman 
would  say,  that  we  love  the  haunts  of  our  childhood.  Be 
sides,  it  is  just  the  right  height ;  allowing  head,  neck,  and  a 
very  small  portion  of  the  shoulder  to  rise  above  the  table. 
That  will  oblige  me  to  sit  straight. 

High-shouldered?  Oh  no!  see  how  easily  the  thing  is 
done,  and  without  the  possibility  of  lounging. 

Then  I  have  another  reason  for  affecting  this  ottoman. 
Geniuses  have  queer  notions,  (as  well  as  other  spoiled  chil 
dren,)  and  the  world  pets  and  indulges  them,  and  encourages 
their  eccentricities,  till  oddity  becomes  the  universal  badge  of 
the  tribe,  and  men  reason  something  on  this  wise : 

All  geniuses  have  queer  notions  ; 
A  has  queer  notions  ; 
Therefore  A  is  a  genius. 

Or  au  contraire  : 

All  geniuses  have  queer  notions , 
A  has  no  queer  notions  ; 
Therefore  A  is  not  a  genius. 

Now  I  have  set  my  heart  on  playing  make-believe,  since  1 
am  not  a  genius ;  and  so  I  must  contrive  up  some  little  pecu 
liarity.  Burns  wrote  his  first  things  on  the  air,  while  saun 
tering  over  the  "banks  and  braes  of  bonny  Boon;"  and,  seal 
ing  the  light-winged  scrip  to  his  memory,  he  carried  it  home 
IS 


16 


NORA   MAYLIE. 


to  copy  from  at  leisure.  It  was  a  very  odd  thing  of  the  Doon 
man  !  Any  common  individual  would  have  written  better  in 
a  quiet  room,  with  the  most  convenient  of  standishes,  a  half- 
dozen  nicely  nibbed  pens,  and  a  quire  of  foolscap  cut  and 
paged,  all  spread  invitingly  before  him.  (And,  between  our 
two  selves,  'Bel,  I  think  /should  prefer  such  a  room,  genius 
or  no  genius.)  But  here  is  another  case,  quite  in  point.  The 
whilome  proprietary  of  Glenmary  found  the  shadow  of  a 
bridge,  a  wall  impregnable  to  truant  thoughts ;  and  he  has 
made  the  spot,  seldom  looked  upon  but  by  rafters  and  cross 
beams,  and  the  little  winged  people  that  go  among  them  to 
find  summer-lodgings,  classic  ground.  That  bridge  at  Glen 
mary  !  What  a  scrambling  there  will  be  to  see  it  one  of  these 
days! 

And  this  ottoman !  it  is  a  very  trivial  thing,  to  be  sure,  but 
that  is  what  makes  it  important ;  and  I  shall  take  pains  to  let 
it  be  known  that  this  is  my  own  peculiar  property,  leaving  it 
to  be  inferred  that  I  could  not  possibly  write  anywhere  else. 
Then  think  of  your  great-grandchildren,  'Bel,  exhibiting  this 
same  pretty  ottoman  —  the  cover  so  faded  that  you  could  not 
recognize  it,  and  the  hair  peeping  through  a  thousand  crev 
ices  —  think  of  their  exhibiting  it  to  their  gaping  little  ones 
as  —  I  can  no  more,  'Bel ;  for,  even  while  these  light  words 
are  on  my  tongue,  there  comes  a  grave  between  my  eye  and 
the  point  it  would  settle  on. 

Wheel  around  the  sofa,  dear,  and  sit  close  beside  me ; 
for  the  ugly  vision  has  got  upon  my  heart,  and  you  must  wile 
it  away,  while  I  tell,  whomsoever  chooses  to  read,  something 
more  of  Nora  Maylie. 

'St,  cousin  !  'st !  The  public  is  my  audience  now,  and  will 
care  no  more  for  that  point-lace  of  yours  than  they  would  for 
so  much  "  Lisle  thread." 

Dear  reader,  how  left  we  Nora  Maylie  ?  Indolent  and 
good-natured,  was  she  not?  Disliking  anything  like  bustle, 
and  resisting  every  attempt  to  be  made  something  of,  with  an 
invisible  strenuousness  that  made  wise  people  marvel  mightily, 
whether  her  nature  were  of  wax  or  adamant  ?  I  think  we  so 


NORA    MAYLIE.  17 

left  her,  and  so  we  find  her ;  as  like  what  she  was  as  yon  sun 
will  be  to  its  present  self,  when  we,  who  now  glory  in  its 
light,  are  shut  away  from  it  by  the  coffin-lid.  Few  changes 
come  upon  such  characters  as  that  of  the  fair  Nora.  They 
appear  before  us  quietly  and  without  ostentation,  as  the  bright- 
eyed  pansy  unfolds  its  petals  in  the  spring-time ;  and,  like 
that  loveliest  of  lovely  things,  they  live  on,  smiling  in  the 
sunshine,  and  bending  to  the  storm  with  a  pliant  gracefulness 
which  mars  not  their  beauty.  And  yet  those  who  looked 
only  at  outward  circumstances  would  have  said  that  Nora 
Maylie  was  changed  most  entirely.  You  will  recollect  that 
at  sixteen  poor  Nora  was  considered  unfit  to  become  a  milliner 
even,  and  sent  home  in  disgrace  to  do  nothing.  At  eighteen 
she  was  altogether  above  the  necessity  of  doing  anything. 

Mrs.  Maylie  chanced  to  have  a  sister,  who  married  a  for 
tune,  together  with  an  aged  and  gouty  metropolitan ;  and  this 
lady  chanced  to  get  a  glimpse  of  our  fair  Nora.  Instantly 
Mrs.  Maylie  was  made  to  understand  that  she  had  mistaken 
her  daughter's  vocation;  and  so  the  young  beauty  Avas  be 
jewelled,  be- flounced,  and  bedizened,  till  it  was  proved  by 
every  possible  experiment,  that,  adorned  or  unadorned,  she 
was  all  the  same,  and  transferred  to  a  fashionable  drawing- 
room.  Everybody  said  that  Nora  Maylie  was  a  very  lucky 
individual,  and  many  a  pretty  maiden  sighed  with  envy  as 
the  proud  mother  recounted  her  darling's  triumphs.  But 
what  thought  the  young  lady  herself?  Alas !  the  perverse- 
ness  of  human  nature  !  Nora  longed  for  the  green  woods 
where  she  had  first  dreamed  over  the  gorgeous  creations  of 
minds  as  dreamy  and  as  idle  as  her  own ;  the  silver-toned 
voice  arising  from  the  little  trout-stream  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
was  forever  in  her  ear,  and  she  was  sure  no  man-made  music 
could  compare  with  it ;  and  there  were  birds  and  flowers,  and 
—  shall  I  tell  you?  Those  were  very  homely  tastes  of  Nora 
Maylie's.  The  tame*  rabbits,  peaking  their  ears  at  every 
sound  ;  old  Mooly,  with  her  crumpled  horns  and  sober,  sensi 
ble  face ;  the  doves  that  used  to  fly  from  the  barn-top  to  her 
bosorn ;  the  hens,  with  their  domestic,  motherly  ways;  and 

VOL   TI.  2* 


IS  NORA   MAYLIE. 

the  geese,  with  their  pretty  necks  and  tea-party  voices  —  all 
these  were  to  poor  Nora  as  so  many  lost  friends,  whose  places 
could  not  be  supplied  by  the  simpering  things  in  stays  and 
broadcloth  that  flocked  to  do  her  homage. 

And  were  there  any  other  home  attractions  for  Nora  than 
these,  and  her  own  kin  ?  Anything  for  which  she  would 
have  resigned  her  envied  position,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  a 
pent-up  stream  leaping  every  barrier,  and  bounding  away  to 
the  ocean's  bosom  ? 

You  may  never  have  heard  of  Will  Waters,  a  handsome, 
dark-eyed,  roguish-looking,  care-for-naught  sort  of  a  fellow, 
who  would  rake  up  more  hay  in  four  hours  than  anybody  else 
could  between  twilight  and  twilight,  and  give  the  rest  of  his 
time  to  rod  or  gun,  or  some  other  heathenish  amusement. 
Was  there  a  dance,  Will  Waters  was  in  the  midst,  leading 
out  the  brightest  of  the  blushing  damsels  ;  was  there  a  husk 
ing,  it  was  an  entire  failure  without  Will  Waters'  songs  ;  and 
at  fourth- of- July  orations  and  stump  speeches,  and  other  move 
ments  for  the  public  good,  nobody  could  hold  a  candle  to  clever 
Will  Waters.  Yet  (great  men  will  have  their  failings)  Will 
was  a  wild  fellow,  very  wild ;  and  people  said  he  was  not  to 
be  depended  upon  in  the  least.  Nobody  could  tell  what  bad 
things  he  had  done  or  was  in  danger  of  doing ;  and  everybody 
loved  him  for  his  frank  heartsomeness,  his  ready  wit,  and  his 
gay  good-nature ;  but  still,  it  was  the  general  impression  that 
Will  Waters,  though  a  "  very  promising  young  man,"  would 
somehow  manage  to  seduce  his  nature  into  breaking  its 
promise. 

There  was  a  village  between  Mr.  Waters'  farm  and  Mr. 
Maylie's ;  and  Will's  handsome  face  was  no  stranger  to  the 
village  beauties,  who  had  wasted  more  smiles  on  him  than 
often  burnish  a  coat  of  country  finish  ;  but  Will  had  somehow 
dodged  the  whole  artillery  and  passed  on.  Away  in  the 
woods,  skirting  fair  fields  of  pale  green  maize  and  dancing 
flax,  so  proud  of  its  light-poised  gem  of  blue,  Will  Waters 
was  destined  to  another  trial ;  and  this  time  the  weapon  was 
oointed  by  a  more  celebrated  marksman  than  himself. 


NORA   MAYLIE.  19 

The  sun  was  just  scattering  his  last  grains  of  gold-dust 
upon  the  spotted  alders  that  leaned  over  the  trout-stream  at 
the  foot  of  "  the  Maylie  hill,"  when  Will  Waters,  his  fowl 
ing-piece  over  his  shoulder,  and  his  dog  hy  his  side,  leaped 
the  chattering  brook;  and,  making  a  great  crackling  and 
crashing  among  the  underbush,  landed  headlong  upon  a  vel 
vety  bank,  hemmed  in  by  witch-hazel,  blackberry  bushes,  and 
the  white-flowering  dog-wood.  The  rude  entree  was  occa 
sioned  by  an  officious  grape-vine  that  had  taken  a  fancy  to  put 
its  arms  around  the  young  man's  foot,  coarse-booted  though  it 
was ;  but  Will  Waters  was  in  a  very  proper  position,  consider 
ing  all  things.  Beneath  the  deep  shade  of  a  broad-leaved 
bass-wood,  whose  peculiar  perfume  made  the  air  around 
heavy  with  richness,  appeared,  in  wondering  amazement,  the 
mistress  of  this  sylvan  drawing-room.  A  bob-o'link  had 
come  up  from  his  home  among  the  sedges  over  the  brook, 
and  was  perking  his  pretty  bill,  and  smoothing  his  plumage 
with  a  knowing  impudence,  directly  before  her  face  ;  but 
quick  was  the  exit  of  Master  Robert  when  wild  Will  Waters 
became  an  actor  in  the  scene.  A  scarce  adult  mouser,  fast 
asleep  on  its  mistress'  knee,  opened  its  yellow  eyes  in  affright, 
and  scampered  off  as  fast  as  its  velvet  feet  would  carry  it ;  and 
a  crow  that  had  lighted  on  a  limb  above,  and  sat  in  silence, 
hopefully  civilized  by  the  nearness  of  the  white-browed  divi 
nity,  spread  his  black  wings  and  rushed  skyward  with  a  caw ! 
caw  !  which  threw  Madam  Echo  into  an  ecstasy  of  noisy  fear. 
But  the  fair  human  joined  not  at  all  in  the  commotion.  True, 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  but  not  with  that  twitch  and  jerk  which 
many  another  would  have  adopted ;  she  rose  with  the  aston 
ished  dignity  of  one  who  intends  to  say  by  the  movement,  "  I 
am  quite  superior  to  being  annoyed  by  you,  but  I  should  like 
to  know  how  far  your  impudence  will  carry  you ;"  and  her 
large,  changeable  eyes  were  opened  to  their  greatest  width. 

"  The  position  could  have  been  no  more  appropriate  had  it 
been  of  my  own  choosing,  O  fairest  thou  of  witching  Syl- 
vans!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  springing  to  his  knee,  and  re 
peating  the  salaam. 


20  NORA    MAYLIE. 

The  lady  blushed  a  little,  and  looked  as  though  not  quite 
sure  of  what  she  ought  to  do  in  such  a  case,  and  so  she  did 
nothing ;  though  her  face  grew  talkative  with  its  declaration 
of  amused  curiosity. 

"  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  snares  at  your  door-way, 
nymph  most  beautiful,"  continued  wild  Will,  "  but  must  he 
who  enters  your  charmed  circle  find  the  chains  rivetted  about 
him  forever  ?" 

"  Nay,"  returned  the  lady  with  a  delicious  smile,  that  be 
lied  her  mocking  words,  "  nay,  poor  youth,  I  pity  thy  mishap, 
and  release  thee  without  a  ransom ;  depart  in  peace  ! " 

"  Bid  the  poor  charmed  thing  be  free,  that  is  beneath  the 
eye  of  the  basilisk,"  exclaimed  Will  in  a  tone  of  mock  mourn- 
fulness. 

"  Be  free  ! "  repeated  the  lady ;  "  the  basilisk  withdraws  his 
gaze  ;"  and  she  gathered  up  her  scattered  implements  and  with 
a  slight  curtsey,  was  turning  away. 

"  Nay,  lady,"  exclaimed  the  hunter  in  an  altered  tone, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  shouldering  his  fowling-piece,  "I 
intruded  unwittingly  upon  your  sanctum ;  and  though,  by  your 
leave,  I  cannot  regret  the  accident,  you  must  not  abandon  it ; 
for  see  !  I  am  gone." 

As  he  spoke,  Will  stepped  back  a  few  paces ;  but  how  he 
could  consider  himself  g<me,  is  a  query  in  my  mind  to  this 
day ;  for  there  was  a  good  yard  of  the  golden-hued  moss 
between  him  and  the  blackberry  bushes  and  Co.,  which  pali 
saded  the  pretty  retreat.  The  lady,  however,  must  have 
believed  him,  for  she  turned  round  very  quietly,  and  fixed  her 
eye  on  pussy,  which  was  peeping  her  little  head  from  a  clump 
of  thorns  that  threatened  to  disfigure  her  coat  most  sadly. 
Will  Waters  retreated  slowly,  until  the  folded  leaf  of  the 
dog-wood  touched  the  hem  of  his  hunting-frock;  and  then, 
with  an  air  of  the  most  respectful  deference,  he  ventured  a 
remark  on  the  beauty  of  the  wood-land  scene.  The  lady,  in 
common  civility,  could  but  answer ;  and  Will  replied ;  and 
then  the  lady's  voice  gave  out  a  bar  of  music,  which  Will 
Waters  could  not  allow  to  close  the  interview,  and  so • 


NORA    MAYLIE.  21 

I  should  not  like  to  tell  you  how  much  time  passed,  dear 
reader,  for  it  was  shockingly  imprudent  in  NORA  MAYLIE  to 
allow  herself  to  be  so  beguiled.  Will  Waters,  however,  un 
derstood  his  cue  well  enough  to  lean  upon  his  fowling-piece ; 
and  Nora  turned  her  back  upon  the  bass-wood  tree,  and  em 
ployed  her  fingers  in  making  baskets  of  its  leaves.  The 
twilight  was  putting  on  its  grayest  hue,  when  Nora  recol 
lected  that  she  should  be  returning  home ;  and  though  the 
youth  did  not  venture  to  accompany  her  in  person,  his  eyes 
followed  her  every  step  across  the  fields. 

Will  Waters  made  two  or  three  ineffectual  attempts  to  get 
up  a  whistle  on  his  way  homeward  that  evening  ;  and  once  he 
struck  out  into  a  song  very  clamorously ;  but  he  was  so  ab 
sent-minded  as  to  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  word,  which 
word  is  waiting  for  its  other  half  to  this  day. 

The  very  next  evening  Nora  Maylie  was  again  surprised 
in  her  rustic  bower ;  but,  as  the  young  hunter  came  in  a  dif 
ferent  manner,  and,  moreover,  as  he  made  a  very  character 
istic  apology  (prettily  impudent)  for  coming  at  all,  the  lady 
did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  rise  from  her  rich  cushions. 
Neither  did  the  bob-'link  fly  away — instead,  he  gave  out  a 
glorious  gush  of  music ;  pussy  opened  her  eyes  lazily  and 
immediately  closed  them  again ;  and  a  good-natured  little 
thrush,  that  saw  fit  to  make  itself  quite  at  home  there,  went 
hopping  along  on  the  ground,  and  never  once  turned  its  eye 
to  inquire  whether  the  intruder  came  for  it  or  its  neighbors. 
Very  well  might  humble  browny  manifest  such  indifference ; 
for  wild  Will's  step  had  an  exceedingly  innocent  sound  to  it, 
scarce  rustling  a  leaf,  much  less  presuming  on  the  entertain 
ment  which,  by  the  aid  of  the  grape-vine,  he  had  furnished  for 
woodland  edification  the  day  previous.  I  know  not  how  it 
was,  but  Nora  Maylie  took  the  intrusion  something  in  the 
spirit  of  Mrs.  Thrush,  whose  back  of  plebeian  brownness 
never  ruffled  a  feather ;  and  so  wild  Will  Waters  leaned  his 
gun  against  the  bass-wood,  and  placed  himself  at  the  lady's 
feet  without  the  ceremony  of  asking.  Will  Waters  had  a 
dashing  way  of  talking  which  Nora  had  never  heard  before, 


22  NOEA    MAYLIE. 

and  so  she  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  it  was  dramatic, 
Shaksperian,  or  something  of  that  sort ;  while  Nora's  voice 
reminded  the  young  hunter  of  the  whisper  of  the  south-wind, 
dallying  with  the  silver-lined  blades  of  grass,  on  whose  wav 
ing  tips  he  had  often  been  borne  away  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

That  our  young  friends  were  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other,  was  very  certain ;  and  that  their  friends  would  be  mu 
tually  displeased,  should  the  acquaintance  chance  to  ripen  into 
anything  more  than  common  friendship,  was  quite  as  certain. 
As  far  as  farmer  Maylie  was  known,  it  was  thought  that  his 
handsome  daughter  would  make  an  unprofitable  ivife  ;  and 
Mrs.  Maylie  would  have  been  struck  with  consternation  at  the 
thought  of  committing  her  poor  child,  with  her  lamentable 
deficiencies,  to  the  keeping  of  such  a  dashing,  careless  fellow, 
as  wild  Will  Waters.  But  young  people  never  will  fall  in 
love  prudently,  and  this  second  interview  decided  the  fate  of 
Will  and  Nora.  To  be  sure,  they  did  not  meet  then  nor  af 
terwards  as  lovers,  but  they  did  meet,  nevertheless ;  and  two 
young  people  do  not  go  every  day  to  the  same  spot,  and  listen 
to  each  other's  voices,  and  look  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
read  from  each  other's  hearts  to  no  purpose.  No,  no  !  the 
temple  that  God  made,  the  solemn  old  wood,  is  a  dangerous 
place  for  beauty  and  manliness,  that  should  not  love,  to  meet 
in.  There  is  so  much  of  love  in  every  wind-moved  pulse 
which  beats  there,  that  the  heart  must  own  a  triple  crust  of 
worldliness  to  brave  its  influence. 

At  last  Mrs.  Maylie's  eyes  became  opened  to  the  truth,  but 
she  was  saved  the  trouble  of  expostulation  by  the  timely  in 
terference  of  her  wealthy  sister ;  and  so  Nora  was  borne  away 
to  other  scenes.  Before  she  went,  however,  the  moon  wit 
nessed  a  very  solemn  meeting  between  herself  and  Will 
Waters ;  there  were  vows,  and  tears,  and  comforting  words, 
and  baseless  castle-building  enough  to  occupy  long  hours  ;  and 
then,  with  promises,  the  fiftieth  time  repeated,  and  other  words 
whose  meaning  was  derived  from  the  breath  that  bore  them, 
the  lovers  parted 

"  Forever  ?  " 

We  shall  see 


NORA    MAYLIE.  M 

Was  it  strange,  then,  that  Nora  Maylie  did  not  love  the 
city  ?  that  her  aunt's  splendid  drawing-room  was  a  prison  to 
her,  and  the  mustachioed  things,  caught  in  the  trap  the  sharp 
lady  was  setting  for  her  benefit,  a  living  annoyance  ?  There 
was  one  thing  in  Nora's  favor ;  she  had  an  inexhaustible  fund 
of  good  feeling.  She  could  never  bear  to  see  even  her  enemy 
(Nora  was  not  conscious  of  having  one,  however)  unhappy, 
and  so  she  could  not  be  thoroughly  unhappy  herself.  While 
we  feel  an  interest  in  a  single  living  being,  we  are  many  a 
good  league  from  misery.  Nora  felt  an  interest  in  a  great 
many.  Her  aunt  treated  her  with  habitual  kindness,  and  for 
her  she  had  gratitude ;  her  gouty  uncle  was  more  like  a  bear 
than  a  human  being,  and  for  him  she  had  pity ;  a  great  many 
persons  showed  her  infinite  respect,  for  which  she  returned  an 
overflowing  measure  of  the  same  with  a  mingling  of  some 
thing  warmer ;  and  the  few  that  loved  her  she  loved  with  all 
her  heart.  Oh  no  !  Nora  was  not  miserable,  but  she  was  sad 
—  sometimes  very  sad ;  for  her  thoughts,  in  gayety  or  lone 
liness,  were  full  of  Will  Waters  and  her  own  quiet  home. 
Nora  was  still  determined  not  to  be  made  anything  of. 

And  Will?     What  of  him? 

He  turned  from  Nora  Maylie  on  the  evening  of  their  last 
meeting;  and,  standing  beneath  the  bass-wood  where  he  had 
first  met  her,  he  spread  open  his  heart  and  character  to  his 
own  inspection.  Long  and  serious  was  the  examination ;  and 
then,  with  the  centred  light  of  his  proud  eye  mocking  the 
stars  above  him,  his  fine  face  full  of  animation,  and  his  head 
elevated  with  a  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  he  bounded 
from  the  love-charmed  circle,  leaped  the  creek,  and  bent  his 
way  homeward.  Determination  was  in  his  firm  step,  and 
hope  glanced  from  every  lineament  of  his  face.  Mr.  Waters 
had  measured  off  an  elder  son's  portion  a  few  years  previous, 
and  why  might  not  Will  hope  the  same  favor  ?  The  next 
morning  he  asked,  and  was  refused.  Moreover,  he  was  made 
to  understand  that  if  he  married  "  that  shiftless  Maylie  girl," 
he  should  not  have  a  cent  "  to  the  longest  day  he  lived." 

It  was  very  impolitic  as   well   as   disrespectful   in  Will 


24  NORA    MAYLIE. 

Waters  to  make  the  answer  he  did ;  and,  for  one,  I  do  not 
blame  the  old  gentleman  for  snubbing  him  for  it.  But  Will 
had  never  been  used  to  such  things,  and  he  had  no  idea  of 
being  made  a  little  boy  of,  in  his  three-and-twentieth  summer ; 
and  so,  after  a  few  more  words  hotly  peppered  with  anger,  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 

"  A  year  and  a  half  have  I  worked  on  this  farm  since  I 
might  have  been  doing  for  myself,  and  all  for  nothing,"  mut 
tered  Will,  as  his  eye  wandered  over  the  closely-shaven  mea 
dows,  and  the  fields  of  grain,  with  their  upright  sheaves, 
many  of  which  had  been  bound  by  his  own  hand. 

"  Well,  I  have  you  yet,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  strong 
arm,  and  regarded  it  for  a  moment  very  affectionately ;  then 
reaching  it  above  his  head,  he  twisted  off  a  heavy  bough  and 
lodged  it  far  away  in  the  meadow. 

"  Ha !  ha  ! "  laughed  Will,  regarding  his  own  feat  with  the 
most  decided  approbation,  and  clapping  his  hands  together, 
"  shall  I  beg  of  an  old  man,  whose  acres  are  his  all,  with  such 
things  as  these  to  carve  out  a  fortune  with  ?  No,  no !  Will 
Waters  is  not  a  beggar  yet ;"  and  he  trudged  on  right  manfully. 

That  winter  there  was  one  axe  rang  from  the  woods  from 
dawn  till  nine  in  the  morning,  and  from  four  till  darkness 
made  the  trees  almost  invisible  ;  and  the  remaining  hours  the 
axe  was  sheltered  beneath  a  little  wood-shed  beside  the  vil 
lage  school-house,  while  its  owner  presided  within.  Every 
body  remarked  that  a  wonderful  change  had  come  over  Will 
Waters.  And  what  was  to  be  his  reward  ?  How  was  fair 
Nora  Maylie  ?  Did  she  stand  the  winter's  test  of  gayety  ?  At 
first,  though  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  admirers,  she  seemed 
to  have  no  preference ;  all  passed  alike  before  her ;  but,  ere 
winter  set  in,  Nora  had  grown  partial.  One  by  one,  her 
suitors  stood  back  for  the  favorite,  till  Nora  scarce  ever  ap 
peared  with  anybody  but  young  Horace  Dacre.  It  was  said 
that  there  was  an  engagement  in  the  case,  that  the  seal  of  the 
ring  would  soon  be  appended ;  and  Nora  took  no  pains  to 
deny  the  charge.  Neither  did  Nora's  aunt.  On  the  receipt 
of  a  letter  from  her  sister,  Mrs.  Maylie  looked  up  her  best 


NORA    MAYLIE.  25 

cap,  and  wer,t  into  the  extravagance  of  a  new  silk  gown.  The 
next  she  heard  was  that  Dacre  was  married,  and  that  her 
daughter  had  had  a  very  narrow  escape  —  she  was  a  hride's 
maid.  How  angry  aunt,  and  mother,  and  Rachel,  and  Matilda, 
and  Susan,  and  Mary  were  with  Nora !  and  how  Nora,  and 
the  sly  bridegroom,  and  shy  bride,  congratulated  themselves 
on  the  success  of  their  provoking  ruse  d'amour.  Oh !  there 
must  have  been  a  spice  of  evil  about  Nora,  notwithstanding 
her  quiet  ways.  Two  thirds  of  the  winter  had  gone,  when 
the  astonishing  denouement  took  place ;  and  there  was  a  most 
glorious  fishing-season  well-nigh  lost  through  this  silliest  of 
girlish  freaks.  Nothing  daunted,  however,  the  mano3uvrer 
resolved  to  gather  up  the  scattered  fragments  of  time  still  left 
her ;  and,  to  prevent  imposition,  she  took  the  cards  into  her 
own  hands ;  and  she  played  so  adroitly  that  a  fortune  soon 
lay  at  Nora's  feet.  Nora  would  have  put  it  beneath  her  feet, 
had  she  consulted  only  her  own  feelings  on  the  occasion — 
not  that  she  had  any  particular  dislike  for  a  fortune,  but  there 
was  a  certain  incumbrance  upon  it  that  she  did  not  like.  So 
Nora,  like  the  foolish  girl  that  she  was,  refused  the  whole. 

But  as  fast  as  Nora  said  no,  Nora's  aunt  said  yes  ;  and  as 
the  affirmative  could  boast  superiority  in  years,  Mr.  Lever 
(the  lady's  principal  objection  to  the  fortune)  was  inclined  to 
think  that  the  affirmative  had  it.  Still  Nora  was  obstinate, 
and  her  aunt  was  obstinate,  and  Mr.  Lever  was  obstinate ;  so 
it  was  thought  proper  to  have  Mrs.  Maylie's  counsel. 

Early  in  the  spring,  the  dressmaker,  the  milliner,  and  the 
two  school-mistresses,  were  called  home  to  put  the  farm-house 
in  order  for  the  reception  of  important  guests.  It  was  reported 
far  and  wide,  that  Nora  Maylie  had  come  home  to  be  mar 
ried  ;  a  version  of  matters  in  which  popular  gossip  invented 
less  than  the  lady's  own  friends.  When  they  told  Will 
Waters,  he  smiled  contemptuously ;  and  when  they  told  his 
father,  he  smiled  too,  and  said  he  hoped  his  son  would  re 
turn  to  reason  now.  When,  however,  Nora  came  home, 
accompanied  by  her  aunt  and  Mr.  Lever,  the  face  of  Will 
Waters  grew  anxious,  and  his  smile  lost  its  complacency. 

VOL.  n.  3 


26  NORA   MAYLIE. 

And  now  Mr.  Lever  had  plenty  of  assistants  in  his  wooing, 
and  things  would  have  gone  on  swimmingly,  had  not  Nora 
possessed  the  most  provoking  of  pliable  natures.  Had  she 
only  stormed,  and  declared  that  she  would  sooner  die,  that  they 
might  kill  her,  but  she  would  never  commit  such  horrid  per 
jury,  there  would  have  been  some  hope  ;  but  when  Nora,  with 
her  sweet,  low  voice,  repeated  every  day,  "  it  cannot  be, 
mother,"  Mrs.  Maylie's  heart  grew  faint,  and  she  was  almost 
tempted  to  give  up  the  contest.  Her  sister,  however,  was 
more  persevering ;  and,  finally,  affairs  were  brought  to  a  crisis. 
The  father  was  called  in,  and,  being  urged  on  all  sides,  he  at 
Jast  resorted  to  authority. 

"  Obey  !  or  you  are  no  child  of  mine  ! "  was  the  stern  pa- 
.ental  injunction. 

Poor  Nora  !  Should  she  accept  the  splendor  that  was  daz 
zling  all  eyes  but  hers,  and  buy  the  favor  of  those  she  loved 
most  dearly  ?  or  should  she  go  forth  upon  the  world  an  out 
cast,  oiphaned  by  worse  than  death,  friendless  and  penny- 
less  ? 

"  You  shall  have  my  answer  to-morrow,"  was  all  that  Nora 
said. 

The  sun  had  just  looked  his  last  good-night,  and  many  a 
bright  cluster  of  golden  rays  was  loitering  in  its  way  heaven 
ward,  when  Nora  Maylie,  attired  in  her  simplest  muslin,  and 
with  the  little  straw  hat  she  had  worn  the  summer  previous 
tied  under  her  chin,  stole  from  the  seclusion  of  her  own  cham 
ber,  and  glided  like  a  spirit  across  the  fields.  When  she  had 
reached  the  old  trysting-spot,  hedged  in  by  the  blackberries 
and  witch-hazel,  she  pushed  aside  the  bushes,  and  knelt  upon 
the  roots  of  the  now  budding  bass-wood.  Then  she  arose  and 
passed  on.  She  crossed  the  brook  on  the  stepping  stones, 
and  hurried  over  the  springy  ground  beyond,  until  her  feet 
were  bathed  in  the  cold  draught  held  by  the  deceitful  soil ; 
and  on  she  went,  still  more  hurriedly,  until  her  father's  broad 
lands  all  lay  behind  her.  Climbing  a  fence,  Nora  was  just 
losing  herself  among  the  stately  patriarchs  of  the  forest,  when 
she  heard  her  own  name  pronounced,  in  tones  more  of  won- 


NORA    MAYLIE.  27 

der  than  gladness,  and  she  stood  face  to  face  with  Will 
Waters. 

«  I — Was  —  was  going  to  the  village,"  remarked  the  lady, 
her  large  eyes  turning  doubtfully  to  her  lover's,  and  veiling 
themselves  in  alarmed  perplexity  at  the  coldness  they  en 
countered. 

Nora  did  not  know  how  many  tongues  had  been  busy  with 
the  ear  of  Will  Waters. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you,"  was  the  answer,  and  with  an  iron 
ical  smile  and  a  low  bow.  the  young  man  vacated  the  path.' 

"  But  I  hoped — to  —  to  meet — you  there."  Nora  stam 
mered  excessively,  and  the  color  went  and  came  upon  her 
cheek  with  strange  precipitancy. 

"  Me!" 

"  Is  it  so  very  strange,  then  ?  I  have  gone  down  to  the 
knoll  by  the  brook  many  a  time  to  meet  you,  Will." 

"  Ay ;  but  then  you  were " 

"  Then  I  was  happy  in  home  and  friends — now  I  have 
neither — you  have  taught  me — not  one" 

"  Nora  ? " 

"  You  may  as  well  know  it,  Will — though  it  matters  but 
little  now.  I  came  out  to  tell  you  that,  without  your  protec 
tion,  I  have  nowhere  to  go !  I  came  to  ask  your  advice  — 
your — your  —  " 

"  Without  my  protection,  Nora  ?  I  do  not  well  see  how 
that  can  be  ;  but,  were  you  ten  times  dyed  in  falsehood,  you 
should  not  ask  it  in  vain  ;"  and  the  young  man's  arms  were 
extended,  as  though,  if  their  shelter  could  yet  be  accepted, 
they  should  be  a  shield  that  none  of  the  ills  of  life  could  pene 
trate. 

Nora  did  not  draw  back,  nor  yet  advance,  for  she  was 
stricken  to  the  heart  by  this  suspicion,  where  she  had  ex 
pected  the  confidence  and  sympathy  so  much  needed.  The 
large,  round  tears  broke  from  their  dark -fringed  enclosure,  and 
followed  each  other  silently,  gemming  her  palpitating  bod- 
dice  ;  while  the  lady  answered,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  I  do 
not  ask  it  now,  Will !  Oh  !  you  are  so,  so  changed  ! " 


28  NORA    MAYLIE. 

4 '  It  is  not  7,  Nora — look  into  your  own  heart  if  you  would 
know  where  the  change  lies.  But,  perhaps — perhaps  —  " 
and  now  there  was  a  strange  eagerness  in  the  tones  of  Will 
Waters  — "  if  there  should  be  a  mistake,  Nora  !  if  they  have 
belied  you!  if " 

A  sudden  flash  of  joy  lighted  up  the  face  of  the  young  man. 
His  supposition  became  at  once  reality.  He  had  been  a  fool, 
and  she  —  he  did  not  say  what ;  but  his  arms  were  a  little 
farther  advanced  and  folded  over,  and  Nora  Maylie  lay  within 
them.  Not  a  word  of  explanation  was  necessary  now,  for 
heart  was  beating  against  heart,  and  they  told  their  own  true 
story.  But  words  were  spoken,  nevertheless,  so  low  that  the 
light- winged  zephyr  sitting  upon  the  lip  could  scarcely  hear 
them ;  yet  they  proved,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  Will  Waters 
and  Nora  Maylie  were  both  unchanged.  And  so  —  and  so  — 

We  are  intruders,  dear  reader ;  let  these  foolish  lovers  have 
the  next  hour  to  themselves. 

The  hour  is  passed,  and  Will  Waters  and  Nora  are  beneath 
the  bass-wood. 

"  And  if  you  cannot  effect  this  most  cruel  compromise,  dear 
Nora,  you  will  meet  me  here  at  ten  to-morrow  ? " 

"  I  will." 

"  Do  not  promise  them  too  much,  Nora ;  do  not  quite  cut 
off  all  hope.  You  are  right,  I  suppose ;  I  know  you  must  be  ; 
but  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  me  to  consent  to.  I  would  not  have 
believed  that  I  ever  could." 

"  You  would  not  but  that  it  is  right,  Will." 

See  that  touchingly  sweet  smile  accompanying  the  lady's 
words  !  Will  Waters  cannot  resist  it,  and  he  acknowledges, 
with  almost  idolatrous  zeal,  who  taught  him  right ;  and  so, 
with  mutual  blessings,  they  part. 

The  compromise  ? 

Nora  had  decided  that  her  friends  had  no  right  to  force  her 
into  a  marriage  which  her  heart  did  not  sanction,  and  there 
fore  that  she  ought  to  resist  it  firmly.  On  the  other  side,  as 
the  bestowal  of  her  hand  on  Will  Waters  involved  no  point 
of  conscience,  obedience  was  her  first  duty.  This  may  sound 


NORA   MAYLIE.  29 

like  cold  reasoning ;  but  it  was  arranged  with  many  tears, 
even  with  sobs,  there  in  the  little  chamber,  and  it  was  whis 
pered  with  anything  but  coldness  in  those  dear  old  woods. 
And,  strange  enough,  the  gentleman  consented  !  Notwith 
standing  he  had  become  estranged  from  his  own  father,  and 
for  six  months  had  been  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  home 
without  once  stepping  his  foot  over  the  threshold,  he  could 
not  but  consent  to  a  measure  which  seemed  so  much  a  matter 
of  course  to  Nora,  that  he  was  ashamed  to  offer  more  than  a 
score  of  objections. 

The  next  morning,  while  yet  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke 
of  ten,  Nora  Maylie  pushed  aside  the  witch-hazel  and  dog 
wood,  and  placed  her  hand  within  that  of  Will  Waters ;  a 
mute  acknowledgment  that  he  was  her  last  and  only  friend, 
and  Will  accepted  the  sacred  gift  as  a  man  should  do.  Care 
fully  he  led  her  down  to  the  roadside,  where  a  carriage  stood 
waiting  them,  lifted  her  to  a  seat,  and  they  drove  away  to  the 
village. 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  bride  who  stood  in 
parson  Lee's  little  parlor  that  morning ;  and  a  proud,  happy 
resoluteness  in  the  whole  air  and  manner  of  the  bridegroom, 
softened  and  subdued  by  an  appreciation  of  the  touching 
trustfulness  that  had  possessed  him  of  that  quivering  hand. 
And  so  they  went  forth,  they  two,  with  but  the  rewards  of 
his  winter's  toil  to  buy  them  bread,  and  with  scarce  a  voice 
to  cheer  them  on  their  way.  How  everybody  laughed  when 
it  was  reported  that  Will  Waters  had  borne  his  unuseful 
bride  to  the  wilds  of  the  far  west !  As  though  Will  Waters, 
with  his  strong  arm  and  strong  spirit,  and  his  sweet  Nora,  with 
her  loving  heart,  could  not  make  a  pathway  for  themselves 
in  the  wilderness  !  ^ 

Please  make  me  another  pen,  'Bel;  this  story  drags 
shockingly. 

Not  finish  it,  did  you  say  ?  Why,  people  will  think  they 
starved  there  in  the  woods,  or  the  wolves  ate  them  up,  or,  at 
least,  that  they  encountered  the  ague  and  fever. 

"  Which  is  not  true  ?  " 

VOL.  II.  3* 


30  NORA   MAYLIE. 

Which  is  not  true.  I  have  called  Nora  Maylie  my  friend 
and  so  she  is,  though  we  did  not  quite  grow  up  together 
The  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  her  was  on  the  morning  of  her 
marriage.  The  holy  man  had  just  put  the  "amen"  to  his 
prayer,  when  one  whom  we  both  love,  'Bel,  sent  me  to  the 
village  with  a  pretty  bridal  bouquet,  and  I  had  the  honor  of 
presenting  it  myself.  The  kiss  on  my  cheek,  and  the  light 
touch  of  that  soft  hand  upon  my  head,  was  quite  enough  to 
secure  my  little  heart  forever,  even  though  I  had  not  loved 
Will  Waters  as  children  usually  love  those  who  pet  them 
most.  My  mother  took  the  young  couple  into  the  family, 
sympathized  with  and  advised  them,  and  wafted  many  a 
prayer  westward  after  they  had  gone. 

We  never  heard  that  any  bad  luck  happened  to  Will  Wa 
ters,  but  somehow  no  news  came  of  his  having  planted  a  city, 
or  given  his  name  to  a  village,  or  of  having  gained  emolument 
to  himself;  and  so  it  was  generally  supposed  that  the  young 
couple  were  having  plenty  of  time  to  repent  their  folly. 

It  was  eight  years  last  spring  since  Will  and  Nora  were 
married,  and  a  year  this  summer  since  I  saw  them.  I  never 
forgot  Nora's  sweet  bridal  face ;  and  when,  by  the  aid  of  a 
dashing  steamer,  I  had  measured  nearly  all  the  links  in  the 
great  northern  chain  of  waters,  you  may  be  assured  that  I 
was  quite  willing  to  look  upon  a  person  that  I  had  seen  be 
fore.  And  after  jolting  all  day  in  a  big,  springless  wagon, 
and  sleeping  at  night  in  a  villainous  garret,  lighted  by  four 
panes  of  glass,  that  would  not  shove,  sharing  my  breathing, 
stuff  with  a  dozen  others  —  pah  !  I  will  never  subject  myselt 
to  such  things  again,  'Bel ! 

"Ah?" 

Perhaps  I  would  for  a  sight  of  those  glorious  old  woods, 
and  magnificent  prairies  —  nothing  short.  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  after  all  this,  you  may  well  suppose  that  I  would  be 
grateful  for  any  corner,  however  small,  where  the  fresh  air  I 
revelled  in  by  day,  might  not  be  wholly  shut  from  me  at 
night. 

We  expected  to  find  our  friends  in  rather  low  circumstances, 


NORA    MAYLIE.  31 

and  so  we  inquired  at  every  log  hovel  for  Mr.  Waters,  and 
every  time  were  answered,  "farther  on."  Everybody  seemed 
familiar  with  the  name.  We  had  left  the  last  of  these  west 
ern  edifices  about  five  miles  behind,  when  suddenly  our  road 
changed  its  character;  and  from  having  "two  wheels  in  the 
gutter  and  two  in  the  air,"  our  clumsy  vehicle  righted  itself, 
and  jogged  along  on  all  fours  with  very  decent  sobriety.  At 
the  same  time,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  fine  clearing.  A  robe 
of  variegated  gold  and  green,  flounced  by  a  fold  of  silver  in 
the  shape  of  a  creek,  with  here  and  there  groups  of  trees 
looking  into  it,  was  spread  out  to  our  view ;  and  we  turned 
questioning  glances  on  each  other,  wondering  if  this  could  be 
the  possession  of  Will  Waters.  There  was  an  air  of  thrift 
about  it  that  said  nay ;  while  many  a  little  tasteful  arrange 
ment —  shade  trees  left  standing  where  they  should  be,  the 
brook  made  to  show  its  bright,  mischievous  face  at  bewitching 
intervals,  a  beautiful  grove  on  a  rise  of  ground  beyond,  which 
looked  as  though  it  was  intended  to  be  made  something  yet 
more  beautiful,  with  a  thousand  other  proofs  of  a  care  for 
something  less  important  than  clearing  the  land  and  raising 
good  crops,  made  us  waver  in  our  opinion.  There  was  a 
clump  of  green  that  we  could  not  make  out  in  advance  of  us ; 
and  as  we  drew  near,  we  called  on  the  driver  to  slacken  his 
pace  while  we  endeavored  to  satisfy  our  curiosity.  And  what 
think  you  it  was  ?  Why,  a  magnificent  avenue,  fenced  in  by 
stately  old  elm  trees,  and  leading  up  to  the  most  charming 
little  bird's  nest  that  ever  nursed  such  wee  witching  things  as 
we  saw  frolicking  among  the  vines  over-arching  the  door-way. 

Curiosity  stood  on  tip-toe,  and  J went  up  the  avenue  to 

repeat  the  inquiry  we  had  so  often  made  before.  We  saw 
him  tap  at  the  door,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  dress 
through  a  crevice.  In  a  moment  he  turned  back,  accompa 
nied  by  a  charming  woman,  who  glided  over  the  hard  path 
way  with  singular  gracefulness.  We  knew  our  old  friend 
Nora  at  a  glance,  and  we  did  not  allow  her  to  reach  the  end 
of  the  avenue  before  we  had  her  in  our  arms.  She  was 
scarcely  changed.  There  was  tho  same  warm,  soul-full  ex- 


32  NORA    MAYLIE. 

pression  in  the  varying  eye ;  the  same  loving  smile  upon  the 
lip ;  with  a  deeper  happiness  portrayed  in  every  lineament  of 
her  eloquent  face ;  a  richer  hue  of  health  upon  her  cheek ; 
and  a  feeling  in  every  glance  and  movement.  J whis 
pered  me  that  there  was  soul  in  the  very  touch  of  that  foot, 
as  it  kissed  the  earth ;  and  a  more  careless  observer  than 

J would  have  detected  the  soul  in  the  turn  of  the  white 

neck,  and  the  carriage  of  the  classic  head. 

And  the  bright  creatures  at  the  door  ?  The  young  mother 
presented  them  to  us  with  all  a  mother's  love  and  pride,  and 
we  were  not  inclined  to  undervalue  her  jewels. 

The  house  was  built  of  logs,  carefully  caulked,  and  was 
white-washed  inside  and  out.  Very  simple  and  unpretending 
was  it,  with  its  low  walls  buried  by  the  clinging  grape-vines 
which  had  been  brought  thither  from  the  wood.  And  there 
were  marks  in  the  pretty  garden-patch  of  Nora's  "little  spade 
and  little  hoe,"  as  well  as  of  implements  wielded  by  a  heavier 
hand.  The  lady,  doubtless,  found  more  beautiful  flowers  in 
the  woods  of  Iowa,  than  those  which  had  received  her  girlish 
homage  in  New  York.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  room  into 
which  we  were  ushered ;  but  simply  enough  furnished  for  the 
cell  of  a  hermit.  A  piece  of  furniture  answering  to  a  bureau 
stood  against  the  wall,  surmounted  by  a  small,  well-filled 
book-case  ;  beneath  a  window,  shaded  by  a  snowy  muslin 
curtain,  was  a  couch,  evidently  an  article  of  home  manufac 
ture,  cushioned  with  a  pretty  calico ;  and  beyond  this,  directly 
beneath  a  plain,  cherry-framed  mirror,  stood  something  like  a 
dressing-table,  so  completely  covered  by  its  simple  cloth,  that 
eyes  less  curious  than  ours  might  not  have  discovered  the 
white  pine  feet  below,  and  so  judged  it  to  be  the  work  of  the 
couch's  artisan.  Mrs.  Waters  had  indulged  in  one  luxury  ; 
those  handsome  porcelain  vases  on  either  corner  of  her  dress 
ing-table  were  not  useful  things,  for  they  could  have  been 
purchased  for  no  earthly  purpose  but  to  hold  the  flowers 
which  were  now  making  the  air  of  the  apartment  rich  with 
their  perfume.  Possibly,  however,  they  were  a  present  from 
her  husband,  made  sometime  after  encountering  unusual  luck 


NORA    MAYLIE.  33 

in  trading  off  his  grain.  On  the  same  table  stood  a  willow 
work-basket,  with  the  hem  of  a  little  cambric  apron  lying  up 
against  its  rim ;  and  chairs  of  basket-work,  and  a  very  pretty 
carpet,  evidently  a  recent  purchase,  completed  the  furniture 
of  the  apartment.  Not  quite,  however.  There  was  another 
table,  now  occupying  the  centre,  with  a  snow-white  cloth 
spread  over  it,  and  upon  that  a  simple  repast,  lacking  but  the 
smoking  tea-urn;  and  the  cakes  which,  from  the  peculiar  fla 
vor  emanating  from  the  room  beyond,  we  knew  to  be  in  a 
course  of  preparation.  My  eyes  (I  must  acknowledge  it, 
though  I  be  set  down  as  a  table-lover  from  this  day  forth) 
turned  from  the  golden-hued  butter,  and  the  delicious  straw 
berries  peeping  their  dainty  crimson  heads  from  the  sweet 
cream  in  which  they  nestled  so  provokingly,  to  the  promising 
kitchen,  and  back  again,  with  wondrous  eagerness  ;  when  lo  ! 
a  scream  of  delight  from  the  little  watchers  in  the  door-way, 
and  a  new  comer  was  introduced  among  us. 

That  wild  Will  Waters  ! 

Wild  enough  to  be  sure  he  seemed  then,  with  his  heartily- 
expressed  joy  at  seeing  us ;  but  how  came  he  by  that  unstud 
ied  polish,  that  courteous  manner,  that  je  tie  sais  quoi  which 
marks  the  gentleman  —  how  came  he  by  it  here  in  the  wil 
derness,  where  his  whole  business  must  needs  be  felling  trees 
and  ploughing  land  ?  So  did  not  Will  Waters  leave  us.  He 
was  bold  and  blunt  then,  and  notwithstanding  his  many  en 
gaging  qualities,  had  but  little  more  refinement  than  his 
neighbors  ;  but  now,  though  his  manliness  had  not  suffered 
by  it,  you  would  have  believed  that  he  had  been  a  metropoli 
tan  for  a  life-time.  It  was  strange,  unaccountable  —  ah  no  ! 
not  unaccountable.  We  turned  to  the  sunny  face  of  the  wife ; 
we  marked  her  singularly  quiet  air,  the  choice  words  and 
delicate  sentiments  that  she  uttered;  then  the  sweet,  carefully- 
dressed  and  carefully-taught  children,  and  the  neatly-furnished 
apartment;  and  the  riddle  was  unfolded.  We  saw  for  whom 
that  pure  white  dress  had  been  donned  in  the  close  of  the  day, 
for  whom  the  little  muslin  collar  had  been  taken  from  the 
drawer  probably  half  an  hour  before,  and  for  whom  the  glossy 
braids  of  hair  were  so  carefully  adjusted  about  the  fine  head 


34  NORA   MAYLIE. 

Blessings  on  sweet  Nora  Maylie  !  True,  she  was  no  ge 
nius  ;  and  she  could  not  become  a  teacher,  nor  a  milliner, 
even ;  neither  was  she  of  the  material  to  be  moulded  into  a 
woman  of  fashion ;  but  she  was  a  most  charming  wife  and 
mother.  We  found  her  a  charming  hostess,  too,  and  linger- 
ingly  did  we  turn  from  her  sunlit  door. 

When  a  poet  again  inquires,  "  Where  is  happiness  ?"  I  will 
point  him  to  a  little  log  cottage,  nestled  among  wild  grape 
vines,  in  the  far-off  woods  of  Iowa. 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

DEAR  lady  —  thou  that  reclinest  so  gracefully  upon  yon 
sofa,  I  mean  —  lady,  for  a  moment  close  thine  eyes  upon  that 
handsome  volume,  though  its  dress  of  gilded  morocco  was 
certainly  invented  on  purpose  to  be  pressed  by  thy  dainty 
fingers,  and  the  printed  words  may  make  thy  heart  palpitate 
almost  as  much  as  did  the  whispered  ones  of  the  giver.  Nay, 
turn  them  not  upon  the  brilliant  chandeliers,  nor  the  volumin 
ous  folds  of  crimson  that  shut  in  the  rich,  warm  light,  fleck 
ing  the  heavy  drapery  with  changing  gold  and  purple ;  nor 
let  them  fall  upon  the  soft,  yielding  carpet,  almost  yielding 
enough  to  bury  up  thy  tiny,  slippered  foot.  No,  no ;  shut 
out  for  a  moment  all  these  things ;  I  would  turn  thine  eyes  to 
a  homelier  quarter.  Dost  see  that  comfortable  old  farm-house, 
lady  —  that  with  the  generous  court-yard,  broad  kitchen  gar 
den  and  ample  out  houses  ?  How  trig  and  nice  everything 
is  about  it,  although  the  season  of  verdure  is  quite  passed ! 
Look  at  the  ricks  of  hay,  raising  their  conical  heads  down  in 
the  meadow,  and  the  neat  stone  wall  that  surrounds  the  or 
chard  —  speak  they  not  of  thrift  ?  Ay,  that  they  do ;  but  they 
speak  of  a  thing  that  is  passed,  so  far  as  the  owners  of  the 
farm-house  are  concerned.  Yet  we  will  not  dwell  upon  that 
now.  That  lofty  well-sweep,  resting  its  tip  against  the  lower 
horn  of  the  moon,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  aspiring  of  its 
kind ;  but  it  has  labored  faithfully  in  the  cause  of  temperance 
for  many  a  long  year.  This  is  one  of  the  finest  wells  in  all 
the  country  round.  Wouldst  test  it  ?  Close  within  the  curb 
rests  the  gray  old  bucket,  and  it  is  a  right  merry  feat  to  fill  it 
o  the  brim  with  the  clear,  sparkling  fluid  —  that  mossy  brim, 
that  when  the  October  sun  shone  was  as  soft  as  thine  own 
lip,  lady. 


36 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 


It  is  a  cold,  frosty  night,  so  let  us  take  a  peep  within  the 
farm-house.  The  stranger's  foot  was  ever  welcomed  here. 
The  crackling  wood  fire  blazes  brightly  in  the  huge  fire-place, 
and  sends  its  cheering  rays  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the 
room,  quite  overpowering  the  light  of  the  mould  candle  that 
stands  upon  the  oaken  chest  of  drawers.  The  cross  beams 
overhead  are  set  off  with  festoons  of  dried  fruit,  interspersed 
with  bunches  of  herbs ;  and  a  swing  shelf,  suspended  by  bits 
of  leather  attached  to  the  ends,  is  loaded  down  with  useful 
books  and  waste  newspapers.  The  axe  has  been  brought 
from  the  wood -shed,  and  leans  against  the  wall  behind  the 
door ;  above  this  hangs  a  hand-saw  parallel  with  the  top  of  a 
broom-handle  ;  and,  higher  still,  an  old  musket,  with  its  rusty 
barrel  and  broken  lock,  rests  in  honored  peace  from  the  labors 
of  '76.  Articles  of  wearing  apparel,  varying  from  the  heavy 
lion-skin  overcoat  to  the  red  flannel  blanket,  to  suit  the  wants 
of  different  members  of  the  family,  range  along  the  walls,  ap 
propriating  the  goodly  number  of  nails  and  pegs  with  which 
every  prominent  piece  of  timber  is  garnished.  Cherry  tables 
and  wooden  chairs  occupy  a  due  space.  A  large  house-dog, 
under  one  of  the  former,  rests  his  nose  on  his  two  fore  paws, 
and  looks  about  him  very  knowingly,  and  three  or  four  com 
placent  cats  occupy  as  many  of  the  latter  as  they  can  conve 
niently  appropriate.  The  floor  is  bare,  but  it  is  scarcely  less 
white  than  the  carefully  scoured  churn,  from  which  a  girl  of 
sixteen  is  pouring  the  bubbling  milk,  that  but  a  few  moments 
since  mingled  with  the  flakes  of  golden-hued  butter,  now 
transferred  to  the  snowy  bowl.  That  old  lady  in  the  corner 
opposite,  with  the  grey  yarn  knitting,  and  muslin  cap,  is 
granny  Bray.  She  is  a  good  deal  bent  with  age ;  time  has 
ploughed  deep  furrows  in  her  brow  and  taken  all  the  round 
ness  from  her  cheek ;  but  what  a  sweet,  holy  expression  is 
left  instead !  Love  speaks  from  the  midst  of  wrinkles  and 
paleness  and  decay ;  her  energies  have  gone,  her  vigor  is 
wasted,  but  love  is  in  her  heart — such  love  as  angels  feel. 
A  girl  of  eight  is  close  beside  her,  knitting  too.  She  has 
knotted  up  her  yarn  and  is  "  trying  a  race  "  with  granny. 


GRANDFATHER     BRAY.  37 

By  the  table,  a  boy  and  girl  of  ten  and  twelve  are  busy  at  a 
game  of  checkers ;  and  the  father,  that  stout-built,  honest-faced 
man  with  a  newspaper,  now  and  then  glances  from  its  col 
umns  to  the  kernels  of  red  and  yellow  corn  "jumping"  about 
the  board.  The  remainder  of  the  group  are  grandfather  Bray, 
Mrs.  Hunter,  the  mother  of  the  young  folks,  and  her  little  son 
Neddy,  grandfather's  little  pet.  Grandfather,  though  the 
crown  of  his  head  is  quite  bare,  and  the  sides  decorated  with 
fleecy  locks,  is  as  erect  as  a  grenadier ;  and,  if  we  may  judge 
by  present  appearances,  more  to  be  feared  than  any  son  of 
Mars  that  ever  trod  the  field.  He  is  in  a  violent  passion,  a 
perfect  rage,  Mrs.  Hunter  has  probably  asked  some  great 
favor,  and  the  old  man  is  angered  at  her  assurance. 

"No!  no!  no!" 

"  But,  father  — " 

"  Silence  !  I  command  you,  Mary  Hunter  !  Another  word, 
and  you  are  no  child  of  mine  !  I  have  said  and  will  abide  by 
it !  James  Bray  shall  never  step  over  this  threshold  till  he 
comes  to  look  upon  his  foolish  old  father's  corpse ;  you  may 
let  him  see  that,  Mary." 

See  !  the  fine  figure  of  the  matron  cowers,  and  she  raises 
her  clasped  hands,  as  if  deprecating  her  father's  anger.  Now 
she  sinks  back  upon  her  chair,  rocks  to  and  fro,  and  tries  to 
stifle  her  sobs  in  the  folds  of  her  neat,  checked  apron.  Mr. 
Hunter  seems  to  have  lost  his  interest  in  the  newspaper  and 
the  game  too ;  a  cloud  comes  over  his  bluff,  good-humored 
face,  and  he  springs  to  his  feet  with  an  angry  exclamation. 
He  checks  himself,  however,  and  stalks  across  the  room  in 
dogged  silence.  The  faces  of  the  young  people  grow  anx 
ious,  even  to  paleness,  and  the  beautiful  child  standing  at  his 
grandfather's  knee  retreats  behind  him,  looking  out  from  the 
shelter  of  the  high-backed  arm  chair,  with  distended  eyes  and 
parted  lips.  Granny  Bray  alone  dares  speak.  With  her 
shaking,  withered  hand,  she  draws  a  pair  of  silver-mounted 
spectacles  from  eyes  meek,  soft  and  dove-like,  though  the 
haze  of  age  has  almost  obscured  their  brilliancy,  and  her 

VOL.  n.  4 


38  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

gentle,  tremulous  tones  cannot  fail  to  remind  us  of  the  "  still, 
small  voice  "  hushing  the  tempest. 

"  Jacob,  the  sin  of  anger  leads  to  other  sins ;  you  are  unjust 
to  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  Poor  Mary  has  been  an  obedi 
ent  child  to  us  for  more  than  thirty  years,  and  it  is  ungrateful 
to  treat  her  so." 

"  Then  why  does  she  fret  me  ?"  And  the  old  man,  as  he 
speaks,  flings  a  relenting  glance  upon  the  matron.  "  I  am 
sure  I  think  as  much  of  Mary  as  you  do.  Eh,  Neddy  ?t" 
He  is  sorry  that  there  is  any  cause  for  disagreement,  and  that 
is  why  he  stoops  to  caress  the  little  fellow,  who,  reassured  by 
the  natural  tone  of  his  voice,  is  already  tugging  at  his  coat- 
tail.  "  Don't  grandpapa  love  mother,  Ned  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  love  uncle  James,  grandpapa,  you 
know  you  don't ;  and  that  is  just  as  wicked  as  ever  it  can  be." 

The  old  man  starts  as  though  a  wasp  had  stung  the  hand 
laid  upon  the  boy's  head.  How  his  voice  is  changed  !  "  Go 
to  your  mother,  sirrah  ! " 

But  the  brave  little  fellow  is  not  quite  ready  to  obey ;  he 
has  not  had  his  say  out.  His  clear  grey  eye  does  not  blench, 
as  it  is  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  angry  old  man,  and  his  voice 
rings  out  like  a  silver  bell.  There  is  a  touch  of  the  grand 
father's  own  spirit. 

"  Do  you  hate  me,  too,  grandpapa,  because  I  look  like  ancle 
James  ? " 

"Neddy,  Neddy!"  exclaims  the  mother  in  consternation, 
"  you  are  a  very  naughty  boy,  Neddy ;  come,  come  away  to 
bed!" 

The  old  man  answers  not,  but  his  heavy  tramp,  as  he  stalks 
about  the  room,  betokens  a  gathering  storm.  Only  one  can 
stay  its  fury,  and  that  is  the  faithful  being,  chosen  in  rosy 
youth  from  a  bright  throng ;  his  soother  in  adversity,  his  nurse 
in  sickness,  his  counsellor  in  perplexities,  his  companion  and 
never-failing  friend  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  a  long  life. 
She  now  drops  her  knitting  upon  the  table,  quite  forgetting 
that  she  is  not  in  the  seam-needle,  and  hobbling  forward,  places 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY.  39 

"  Take  down  your  Bible,  Jacob ;  consult  that ;  your  own 
heart  is  deceitful." 

"They  teach  even  their  children  to  taunt  me,  Ann;"  but 
the  old  man's  manner  is  comparatively  gentle. 

"  No,  no,  Jacob ;  there  you  are  wrong  again.  Children 
will  be  children,  and  Hunter  and  Mary  are  not  to  blame  if 
Neddy  is  now  and  then  saucy  to  you.  You  play  with  him 
so  much  that  you  ought  to  expect  it." 

"  I  ought  to  expect  it  from  the  face  he  carries ! " 

"  Poor  James  was  the  most  dutiful  of  sons."  The  old  lady 
sighs,  as  though  the  involuntary  tribute  came  from  a  full  heart. 

"  Dutiful 

"  Father,"  says  Mar/  you  have  often  told  us  that  brother 
James  was  the  kindest  and  best  child  you  ever  had.  Don't 
you  recollect  how  he  nursed  you  through  that  long  fever, 
and—" 

"  And  how  he  wheedled  me  out  of  all  my  hard  earnings  and 
made  me  a  beggar  in  my  old  age,  owing  the  roof  that  shelters 
me  to  the  charity  of  strangers,  and  dependent  for  my  bread 
on  one  who  has  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  his  veins  !  What 
do  you  say  to  that,  Mary  ?  Thank  God,  I  have  yet  a  roof 
above  me !  He  would  have  turned  me  into  the  streets,  but 
strangers  —  thank  God  that  I  have  a  roof !  and,  that,  I  swear 
by-" 

"  Jacob,  Jacob  ! "  interposes  the  mild  voice  of  granny  Bray, 
"  say  nothing  you  will  be  sorry  for ;  you  are  in  a  passion. 
Jacob,  and  no  good  comes  of  anger." 

"  Father," — this  is  the  deep  bass  of  Hunter,  who  has  till 
now  remained  silent.  "  Father,  just  now  you  spoke  of  being 
dependent ;  you  know  Mary  and  I  are  glad  to  be  with  you 
and  right  proud  to  make  you  comfortable." 

"  Dear  heart!"  "Whai:  a  grateful  glance  accompanies  the 
old  lady's  exclamation.  "  Jacob,  we  have  the  best  children 
in  the  world  ! " 

"  All  but  one,  all  but  one."  This  is  not  all  the  old  man 
mutters  between  his  teeth ;  but  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  we 
do  not  hear  the  rest. 


40  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

"  And  he  is  good,  too.  Nay,  Jacob,  listen ;  James  is  our 
first-born ;  he  was  our  pride  in  the  days  of  our  strength,  before 
we  knew  how  foolish  and  sinful  it  was  to  lay  up  our  treasure 
upon  earth.  He  has  taken  care  of  us,  and  comforted  and 
watched  over  us ;  to  be  sure  we  leaned  upon  a  broken  reed, 
but  that  was  our  own  fault ;  a  better  child  never  lived.  He 
has  met  with  misfortunes,  and  you  cannot  forgive  him  for  it ; 
how  can  you  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  " 

"  f  do  forgive  him ;  I  told  minister  Dean  so ;  but  I  never 
will  see  him — never,  while  I  have  strength  to  shut  the  door 
agamst  him ! " 

"  It  does  strike  me,  sir,  that  this  spirit  is  not  befitting  a 
man  of  your  years  and  profession,"  interposed  the  bass  voice 
bluntly. 

"  It  is  not  for  you  to  call  me  to  account,  John  Hunter,  unless, 
indeed—" 

"  Do  not  say  it ;  do  not  say  it,  father,"  whispered  Mary, 
crouching  on  the  floor  beside  him,  arid  folding  her  arms  over 
his  knees;  "  Hunter  is  a  lion  when  he  is  aroused,  and  you  and 
he  must  be  kind  to  each  other." 

>'  For  your  sake,  Moll ;  you  are  a  good  girl,  and  I  must 
humor  you,  if  only  because  you  are  the  baby." 

Peace  seems  to  be  restored,  and  we  will  retire,  lady,  while 
I  explain  in  a  few  words  the  scene. 

Grandfather  Bray  was  now  verging  on  his  eightieth  winter, 
and  his  son  James  (himself  a  grandfather)  was  scarce  twenty- 
five  years  his  junior.  When  James  first  married,  he  lived  at 
the  homestead  and  cultivated  the  farm,  and  as  one  after 
another  of  the  children  made  for  themselves  homes  in  the 
neighboring  towns,  his  situation  only  seemed  the  more  per 
manent.  At  last,  Mary,  the  youngest  child,  left  the  parental 
roof,  and  James  and  his  kind  family  were  more  necessary  to 
the  old  people  than  ever.  The  farm  yielded  a  comfortable 
support  for  all,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
continue  to  do  so ;  but  the  demon  of  speculation  entered  the 
honest,  sensible  head  of  James  Bray.  The  title-deed  of  the 
farm  had  been  his  for  several  years ;  he  rashly  risked  it,  and 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 


41 


lost.  Through  the  generosity  of  creditors,  his  father  received 
a  life-lease  of  the  house  and  garden ;  but  what  was  this  to  the 
sturdy  old  farmer,  who  had  all  his  life  long  gloried  in  fertile 
fields  and  overflowing  granaries  ?  His  very  mind  was  nar 
rowed  down — his  faculties  cramped  by  thinking  upon  his 
diminished  fortunes,  and  they  burst  forth  in  anger.  While 
the  old  lady  raised  her  eyes  meekly  and  wondered  what  her 
poor  grandchildren  would  do,  he  only  raised  his  voice  to  ani 
madvert  on  what  had  been  done.  He  declared  that  he  was 
cajoled,  cheated,  swindled,  and  he  would  not  bear  it.  The 
more  unreasonable  his  anger  became,  the  more  fire  it  gathered, 
for  indignation  always  increases  in  inverse  ratio  to  its  right 
eousness.  It  was  soon  found  necessary  for  James  to  seek 
another  dwelling,  and  this  was  a  much  sorer  trial  to  poor 
granny  Bray,  than  the  loss  of  property.  James  had  more  of 
his  mother's  spirit  than  his  father's,  and  it  was  a  sorrowful 
thing  for  him  to  part  in  anger  from  his  beloved  sire.  When 
Mary  Hunter  took  her  place  by  the  sacred  old  hearth-stone, 
he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Never  cease  persuading  till 
you  have  made  peace ;  my  conscience  tells  me  that  I  have 
been  foolish  and  imprudent,  wickedly  greedy  and  covetous  of 
this  world's  goods ;  and  my  father's  anger  will  weigh  heavily 
upon  me  until  it  is  withdrawn."  And  so  Mary's  pleading 
voice  was  often  heard ;  but  it  only  increased  the  old  man's 
irritability.  This  was  the  night  before  Thanksgiving,  and,  as 
usual,  the  children  and  grandchildren  were  to  join  in  the 
Thanksgiving  merry-making  at  the  dear  old  homestead.  And 
Mary  pleaded  and  pleaded,  and  cried  as  though  her  heart 
would  break,  when  she  found  her  pleadings  in  vain.  Thanks 
giving  came  and  went,  but  heavily  passed  the  day  at  the  farm 
house.  Granny  Bray  said  the  like  had  never  been  known 
since  the  funeral  of  poor  little  Jemmy — the  bravest  and  fairest, 
she  had  ever  since  declared,  of  all  her  grandchildren.  The 
Hunters  had  done  their  best  to  make  the  festival  joyous,  bu ; 
no  joy  wras  there.  Even  the  young  children  missed  the  famil 
iar  faces  of  their  young  cousins,  and  looked  thoughtful  in  the 
midst  of  their  amusement. 

VOL.  II.  4* 


42  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

The  feast  was  spread,  and  it  had  never  been  more  sumptu 
ous  ;  but  nothing  seemed  as  in  former  times ;  the  soul  of  the 
feast  was  wanting.  The  love,  the  unity  of  feeling,  that  had 
consecrated  it  since  the  now  outcast  son  sat  on  his  father's 
knee,  a  baby,  had  been  rudely  jarred,  and  the  house  of  feast 
ing  was  turned  to  one  of  mourning. 

Weeks  passed  by,  and  grandfather  Bray  was  as  positive 
and  unyielding  as  ever.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  sweet,  trem 
ulous  tones  of  his  wife  preached  the  duty  of  forgiveness. 

"  I  have  forgiven  him,"  was  the  uniform  reply,  "  but  I  never 
will  forget." 

Still  the  old  man's  stubborness  made  him  miserable,  and 
granny  Bray,  in  kindness  (whether  judiciously  or  not  is 
another  matter)  ceased  not  to  tell  him  of  it  every  day. 

As  New-Year's  day  approached,  a  feeling  exceedingly  un 
comfortable  seemed  to  pervade  the  atmosphere  of  the  old 
farm-house.  It  was  a  festival  that  had  been  almost  as  reli 
giously  observed  as  Thanksgiving  ;  and,  should  it  now  be  neg 
lected  ?  Grandfather  Bray  wished  that  it  might,  and  looked 
about  him  for  a  reason,  but  none  presented  itself.  As  the 
merry  anniversary  drew  near,  even  the  very  clouds  and  sun 
shine  seemed  to  have  an  inkling  of  the  old  man's  state  of 
mind,  and  to  conspire  against  him.  There  was  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-eighth ;  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  the  roads  were  somewhat  blocked  up,  and  grandfather 
was  inclined  to  think  them  quite  impassable  ;  indeed,  he  more 
than  hinted  that  none  but  madmen  would  venture  out  for  at 
least  a  wreek  to  come.  On  the  thirtieth,  however,  sleighs 
flitted  here  and  there  like  fairy  boats  on  a  sea  of  foam ;  and 
such  a  day  as  the  thirty-first  was  an  era  in  the  life  of  pleasure- 
lovers.  The  sleighing  was  a  perfect  marvel.  Oh,  how  the 
horses  pranced  !  And  such  a  jingling  of  bells  !  It  was  enough 
to  turn  the  whole  world  of  young  folks  into  Robin  Goodfellows, 
and  make  the  most  withered  heart  dance  within  the  bosom. 
And  hearts  did  dance,  and  were  mirrored  in  dancing  eyes, 
and  sat  upon  warm,  loving  lips,  and  rang  out  in  glad  young 
voices ;  ay,  winter  though  it  was,  the  earth  was  radiant  with 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY.  43 

beauty,  and  the  air  vocal  with  a  music  far  more  joyous  than 
the  gush  of  melody  from  a  summer  woodland.  The  last  suri 
of  the  old  year  set  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  and  grandfather 
Bray's  heart  sank  within  him.  That  hevy  of  try-to-be  happy 
faces  haunted  him ;  he  was  sure  he  could  not  endure  another 
day  like  the  gloomy  Thanksgiving ;  yet  not  even  a  cold  had 
he  been  able  to  muster,  to  confine  him  to  his  room.  The  old 
man's  face  grew  longer  as  the  evening  deepened ;  but  as  no 
one  appeared  to  observe  him,  he  had  no  excuse  for  being  surly, 
and  was  only  sad. 

What  a  bright  morning  was  that  of  the  New  Year !  the  air 
was  pure  and  bracing,  and  a  gay  dazzling  sunlight  played 
many  pranks  with  inclined  snow  flakes  and  pendent  icicles, 
and  decked  old,  withered  trees  in  a  gayer  garniture  than  that 
of  spring.  Granny  Bray,  with  her  usual  placid  smile,  deco 
rated  herself  with  her  newest  muslin  cap,  and  folded  her 
whitest  'kerchief  across  her  bosom,  and  then  sat  down  to  her 
knitting  in  the  corner.  Mr.  Hunter  went  about  his  usual 
morning  avocations,  but  with  unusual  alacrity ;  his  wife  took 
another  look  at  the  pies  of  pumpkin  and  mince-meat,  the 
dough-nuts  and  cookies  and  gingerbread,  and  then  turned  to 
a  whole  table  full  of  featherless  bipeds,  waiting  to  be  roasted  ; 
while  the  children  busied  themselves  in  making  ready,  in 
their  own  way,  for  a  whole  troop  of  expected  cousins.  Grand 
father  Bray  stumped  about  the  house  and  barn,  and  up  and 
down  the  nice  path  cut  through  the  snow  to  the  road,  then 
drew  on  his  Sunday  coat,  and  made  a  desperate  attempt  at 
cheerfulness.  But  all  would  not  do ;  his  heart  was  troubled. 
Just  as  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  nine,  a  pretty  pony 
dashed  up  to  the  door  with  a  light  vehicle  of  a  somewhat 
unique  pattern,  the  self-same  little  jumper  that  grandfather 
had  assisted  the  two  boys  of  his  banished  son  in  contriving 
and  making.  The  reins  were  held  by  his  own  favorite  grand 
son  ;  and,  by  Charley's  side,  all  hooded  and  cloaked,  sat  his 
young  sister  Lucy,  ready  to  spring  from  the  sleigh  the  moment 
it  stopped. 

"  Cousin  Lucy  !  cousin  Lucy  ! "  shouted  tVe  noisy  children  ; 


44  GRANDFATHER   BRAY 

and  before  she  reached  the  gate  they  were  all  around  her,  and 
little  Eddy  had  half  precipitated  her  into  the  snow-drift  in  the 
attempt  to  jump  astride  her  neck. 

"  How  glad  we  are  to  see  you,  cousin  Lucy ! "  and  "  Did 
grandfather  invite  you  to  New  Year's,  cozzy?"  and  "Is  uncle 
James  coming  ? "  were  among  the  questions  and  exclamations 
poured  upon  the  little  maiden,  as  she  proceeded  to  the  house. 

Even  Charley,  who  kept  his  station  in  the  sleigh,  was  for 
the  moment  forgotten,  but  it  was  only  a  moment.  Eddy  turned 
back  to  him,  and,  with  a  delighted  scream,  accomplished  the 
feat  he  attempted  with  Lucy ;  and  the  children,  attracted  by 
the  noise,  gathered  round  the  funny  little  jumper,  leaving 
Lucy  with  her  eldest  cousin  on  the  threshold. 

"  Does  grandfather  love  me  yet?"  she  whispered  in  Julia's 
ear. 

"  I  don't  know,"  and  Julia  shook  her  head,  as  though  she 
would  have  added,  "  you  would  n't  think  he  did." 

"  Then  he  never  speaks  of  me  ? "  inquired  the  child,  in  a 
still  softer  tone. 

"  Poor  grandfather  !  "  sighed  Julia  Hunter ;  and  "  Poor 
grandfather!"  echoed  Lucy  Bray;  "poor  dear  grandfather! 
It  must  make  him  unhappy,  not  to  love  everybody;  he  was 
always  so  good." 

By  this  time  the  door  turned  on  its  hinges  and  Lucy  step 
ped  into  the  capacious  kitchen,  where  you  and  I  went,  lady, 
the  night  before  Thanksgiving.  Grandfather  was  trying  to 
busy  himself  over  a  newspaper,  but  Lucy's  quick  eye  at  once 
detected  the  failure,  for  it  was  upside  down.  "  A  happy  New 
Year,  grandfather  ! "  she  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone ;  and  the  old 
man,  though  he  raised  his  hand,  and  drew  back  his  head, 
could  not  prevent  the  dewy,  red  lips  from  meeting  his. 

"  You  are  cold,  Lucy,"  he  attempted  to  say  in  an  indiffer 
ent  tone ;  but  his  voice  sounded  husky  and  unnatural,  and  he 
was  ashamed  to  trust  it. 

The  meeting  between  granny  Bray  and  her  little  grand 
daughter  was  a  loving  one  but  the  child  soon  turned  away 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY.  45 

from  the  dear  old  lady,  to  one  who,  notwithstanding  his  faults, 
was  none  the  less  dear. 

"  I  did  n't  come  to  stay,  grandfather,  for  I  know  that  it  would 
spoil  your  New  Year's  to  have  anybody  here  that  you  don't 
love ;  but  I  did  want  to  bring  you  some  of  my  socks  and  mit 
tens,  you  liked  them  so  much  last  winter.  Don't  you  remem 
ber,  grandfather,  that  first  pair  of  mittens  ?  how  they  twisted, 
and  the  stripes  went  all  askew  ?  and  then  how  you  laughed 
at  me,  and  put  both  my  hands  into  one  and  tied  them  fast  ? 
But  the  next  pair  was  done  to  a  charm  —  don't  you  recollect? 
Now,  look  here,  grandfather  ! "  and  Lucy  began  to  display  the 
contents  of  her  basket. 

Grandfather,  however,  did  not  look.  There  was  a  slight 
redness  about  his  eyes,  and  a  nervous  twitching  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth ;  but  what  principally  prevented  him  from  look 
ing  was  the  extreme  difficulty  he  had  in  finding  his  way  into 
his  pocket,  though  his  only  object  seemed  to  be  to  force  an 
entrance,  for  when  he  once  accomplished  the  feat  he  withdrew 
his  fingers  and  tried  again.  In  the  mean  time,  Lucy  had  pro 
duced  from  her  basket  a  neat  muslin  cap,  and  granny  Bray's 
snowy  head  was  bared  to  try  the  effect  of  her  pretty  present. 
For  thirty  years  her  caps  had  been  made  by  the  same  hand, 
and  she  was  sure  that  no  one  could  suit  her  but  the  elder 
Lucy. 

"  Tell  your  mother,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that  it  was  very 
kind  in  her  to  think  of  us ;  and  especially  to-day,  when  we 
have  done  the  same  as  to  shut  the  door  upon  her.  Your 
mother  is  a  good  woman,  Lucy,  and  you  are  a  good  child." 

"  Her  mother's  child,"  said 'the  old  man,  struggling  with  a 
whole  throatful  of  emotion. 

Lucy  turned  her  full  eyes  upon  him ;  then  they  brimmed 
over,  and,  twining  her  arms  around  the  old  man's  neck,  she 
buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  and  sobbed,  "  My  father's  child, 
and  yours,  dear  grandfather ;  you  cannot  cast  me  off! " 

The  shaking  arms  closed  around  her,  as  if  declaring  they 
did  not  wish  to  cast  her  off,  and  the  old  man  threw  a  troubled 
glance  upon  the  floor.  It  was  not  the  place  to  gain  firmness* 


46  GRANDFATHER   BRAY. 

for  there  stood  the  basket,  with  the  hose  and  mittens  that 
nobody  but  Lucy  and  her  mother  could  knit  just  right ;  and 
upon  the  top  lay  a  pair  of  cloth  slippers,  so  comfortable  that 
his  feet  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  creep  into  them  at  once. 
How  he  had  wanted  just  such  a  pair  of  slippers !  and  how 
granny,  and  Mary,  and  Mary's  daughter,  Julia,  had  fretted 
over  them,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  producing  a  pair  that 
would  fit  the  hoofed  foot  of — of  anything  that  has  such  feet, 
much  better  than  the  pedal  extremities  of  any  human  being. 
But  there  was  one  thing  about  them  that  troubled  the  old 
gentleman  more  than  all  the  rest. 

The  soling  was  the  handiwork  of  James.  There  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it ;  James  was  ingenious  and  economical, 
and  he  had  always  done  such  things.  Grandfather  Bray 
drew  the  back  of  his  horny  hand  two  or  three  times  across 
his  eyes ;  and  his  aged  partner  knitted  away  very  earnestly, 
having — not  the  tact,  oh,  no,  the  old  lady  was  far  from  being 
celebrated  for  skill  in  that  line — but  the  genuine  kindness  of 
heart,  to  forbear  speaking.  Prying  eyes  overthrow  a  vast 
amount  of  good  in  this  world.  Honest  hearts  do  not  like  to 
be  looked  into,  and  spied  out,  and  commented  upon,  much 
better  than  dishonest  ones.  Emotion  of  all  kinds  is  a  sacred 
thing,  and  the  man  who  loves  to  display  it  has  only  the  coun 
terfeit.  Grandfather  Bray  never  counterfeited ;  it  was  unne 
cessary,  for  he  was  in  possession  of  the  true  coin.  All  he 
did  was  done  bluntly  and  honestly.  For  a  moment  he  held 
his  breath  and  winked  back  the  moisture  from  his  eyes ;  but 
the  mute  evidences  of  love  and  carefulness  looked  up  plead 
ingly  from  the  child's  little  basket,  and  told  of  by-gone  days ; 
and  the  precious  burden  within  his  arms,  quivering  all  over 
with  emotion,  was  too  close  to  his  heart  not  to  exert  a  soften 
ing  influence  upon  it. 

"  God  bless  you,  Lucy ! "  at  last  the  old  man  broke  forth. 
"  Hush  your  sobbing,  child ;  hush  !  There,  there,  my  little 
puss,  be  quiet  now,  and  you  shall  have  everything  your  own 
way.  Children  are  so  wilful  now-a-days !  Do  you  hear, 
pussy  ?  everything  your  own  way." 


GRANDFATHER  BRAY.  47 

"  Grandfather  !  my  —  do  you  mean " 

"  Mean !  to  be  sure  I  do ;  mean  a  great  many  things ! 
Hop  down  from  my  knee.  Crying  children  should  never 
kiss;  you've  sprinkled  my  face  all  over  with  your  tears;" 
and  grandfather,  thinking  he  had,  by  this  last  remark,  proved 
the  impossibility  of  any  of  the  tears  belonging  exclusively  to 
himself,  rolled  the  bewildered  child  from  his  arm  and  hurried 
to  the  door. 

"  Hunter !  John  Hunter  !  How  d'ye  do,  Charley  ?  come 
here,  my  boy !  we  are  to  have  grand  times  to-day,  and  you 
and  I  must  do  the  little  odd  jobs,  you  know.  Hunter,  harness 
the  horses  to  the  big  sleigh,  and — hem!  —  and  go  over  to  the 
corners  and  bring  —  ahem  !  —  bring  James  Bray,  and  all  the 
family  —  oil  of  them,  remember,  Hunter;  down  to  the  cat,  if 
Billy  has  a  notion." 

Off  started  the  overjoyed  son-in-law  with  a  skip-hop-and- 
jump-step,  that  made  the  children  send  up  a  merry  peal  of 
laughter  exactly  suited  to  the  gayety  of  the  morning ;  and 
grandfather  Bray  joined  in  the  merriment,  though  very  far 
from  certain  that  it  was  not  at  his  expense.  Lucy  had  heard 
the  command ;  and  she  now  had  both  hands  clasped  about 
her  grandfather's  arm,  with  her  sweet,  sunny  face  upturned 
and  looking  into  his ;  while  Charley  expressed  his  joy  by 
leaping  over  the  fence  and  back  again  three  times  succes 
sively. 

Lady,  if  you  could  have  looked  in  at  grandfather  Bray's 
that  day  !  if  you  could  have  heard  the  stale  joke  applauded,  as 
though  that  moment  coined !  and  seen  the  mirthful  faces  (to 
say  nothing  of  the  steaming  meats  and  smoking  gravies)  and 
heard  the  long,  loud  peal  that  shook  the  rafters,  mingling 
with  the  silvery  tones  of  childhood !  If  you  could  have  seen 
and  heard  all  this,  I  do  not  say  that  you  would  have  envied 
that  joyous  party,  but  you  would  have  wondered  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  did  not  envy  them.  And  Lucy  clapped  her 
small,  dimpled  hands,  and  skipped  and  frisked  about  like  a 
little  kitten  ;  and  Neddy  declared  that  grandfather  only  hug 
ged  him  the  closer  when  they  all  said  he  looked  like  uncle 


48  GRANDFATHER   BRAY. 

James.  Not  a  word  was  said  of  forgiveness,  on  either  side, 
for  when  the  heart  has  done  its  work  words  are  weak  things ; 
but  nevertheless  words  did  pass ;  words  of  care  and  considera 
tion,  and  they  were  appreciated. 

You  will  wonder,  lady,  that  I  have  taken  you  to  such  a  com 
mon  place,  and  told  you  such  a  very  common  story ;  and  I  can 
hardly  answer  why.  It  must  be  that  you  have  kept  all  home 
feelings  pure  and  sacred ;  the  chain  of  love  that  passes  around 
your  hearth-stone  can  never  have  been  tarnished  by  the  breath 
of  an  unjust  or  unforgiving  spirit.  Lady,  pardon  me;  my 
story  was  intended  for  unreasonable  old  men  like  grandfather 
Bray,  and  resentful  people  unlike  his  son  James ;  and  I  am 
sorry  to  have  detained  you  so  long.  Of  course,  the  fire  on 
your  domestic  altar  never  burns  dim ;  and  you  are  too  gentle 
and  loving  to  stand  up  in  unbending  coldness,  because  you 
happen  to  be  in  the  right.  Would  that  all  were  like  you, 
lady! 


49 


SONNET    TO   WINTER. 

THY  brow  is  girt,  thy  robe  with  gems  inwove ; 
And  palaces  of  frost-work,  on  the  eye, 
Flash  out,  and  gleam  in  every  gorgeous  dye, 

The  pencil,  dipped  in  glorious  things  above, 
Can  bring  to  earth.     Oh,  thou  art  passing  fair  ! 

But  cold  and  cheerless  as  the  heart  of  death, 

Without  one  warm,  free  pulse,  one  softening  breath, 
One  soothing  whisper  for  the  ear  of  Care. 

Fortune  too  has  her  Winter.     In  the  Spring, 
We  watch  the  bud  of  promise  ;  and  the  flower 
Looks  out  upon  us  at  the  Summer  hour ; 

And  Autumn  days  the  blessed  harvest  bring ; 
Then  comes  the  reign  of  jewels  rare,  and  gold, 
When  brows  flash  light,  but  hearts  grow  strangely  cold. 


LIGHTS  AND   SHADES--A  SONNET 

IF  there  be  light  upon  my  being's  cloud, 

I  '11  cast  o'er  other  hearts  its  cheering  ray ; 

'T  will  add  new  brightness  to  my  toilsome  way. 
But  when  my  spirit's  sadness  doth  enshroud 

Hope's  coruscations,  pleasure's  meteor  gleam, 
And  darkness  settles  down  upon  my  heart, 
And  care  exerts  her  blighting,  cankering  art, 

Then,  then,  what  I  am  not  I  '11  strive  to  seem ; 
Woe  has  no  right  her  burden  to  divide, 
To  cast  her  shadows  o'er  a  sunny  soul ; 
VOL.  ir.  5 


50  SONNETS. 

So,  though  my  bark  rock  on  the  troubled  tide, 
Or  lie,  half  wrecked,  upon  the  hidden  shoal, 
The  flowers  of  hope  shall  garland  it  the  while, 
Though  plucked  from  out  her  urn  in  death  to  smile. 


SONNET. 

THE    BUDS    OF   THE    SARANAC.* 

AN  angel  breathed  upon  a  budding  flower, 

And  on  that  breath  the  bud  went  up  to  heaven, 
Yet  left  a  fragrance  in  the  little  bower 

To  which  its  first  warm  blushes  had  been  given ; 
And,  by  that  fragrance  nursed,  another  grew, 

And  so  they  both  had  being  in  the  last, 
And  on  this  one  distilled  heaven's  choicest  dew, 

And  rays  of  glorious  light  were  on  it  cast, 
Until  the  floweret  claimed  a  higher  birth, 

And  would  not  open  on  a  scene  so  drear, 
For  it  was  more  of  Paradise  than  earth, 

And  strains  from  thence  came  ever  floating  near ; 
And  so  it  passed,  and  long  ere  noontide's  hour, 
The  bud   of  earth  had  oped,  a  heaven-born  flower. 

*Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson. 


51 


BOEN   TO  WEAR  A   CORONET. 

SOME  people  are  born  to  wear  a  coronet,  no  doubt ;  but 
why  such  things  happen  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  where 
plain,  simple,  republican  blood  alone  is  allowed  to  pass  cur 
rent,  I  cannot  imagine.  Yet  that  such  things  do  actually  occur 
here,  I  am  certain,  and  so  would  you  be,  dear  reader  of  mine, 
if  you  had  ever  seen  .Rosina  Brown.  Well  do  I  remember 
her— a  tall,  dark-haired  maiden,  in  the  first  half  of  her  teens, 
with  a  form  remarkably  well  developed,  an  easy  air,  and  a 
very  peculiar  manner  of  carrying  a  head  which  was  in  reality 
a  very  fine  head,  when  it  was  not  thrown  back  so  far  as  to 
destroy  the  equilibrium  of  the  figure.  In  school-girl  phrase, 
she  was  a  magnificent  creature,  with  hair  like  the  raven's 
wing,  and  eyes  to  match,  features  of  nature's  most  exquisite 
workmanship,  a  queen-like  figure,  and  a  step  like  Juno's. 
People  less  enthusiastic  would  have  said  that  she  was  a  very 
fine  girl,  who,  if  she  did  not  spoil  herself  by  disagreeable  airs, 
might  become  a  useful  and  accomplished  woman.  We  were 
not  so  tame  and  common-place,  however ;  and,  from  the  digni 
fied  Miss  Martin,  who  had  come  to  Alderbrook  "  merely  to 
review  her  studies,"  down  to  us  lisping  Peter  Parleyites,  we 
all  regarded  such  equivocal  encomiums  with  the  contempt 
they  merited.  Oh !  how  we  did  lament  the  vulgarity  of 
American  society,  and  deprecate  the  debasing  sentiment  which 
is  the  corner-stone  of  our  government.  But  for  those  "  rusty- 
fusty  old  men,"  who  put  their  heads  together,  as  old  men  are 
forever  doing,  to  destroy  all  the  dear,  delightful  romance  of 
life,  by  making  believe  that  all  the  people  in  the  world  are 
born  free  and  equal,  our  splendid  beauty  might  have  been  at 
least  a  countess. 

"The  head  of  Zenobia!"  Miss  Martin  would  sigh,  and, 


52  BORN   TO    WEAR  A    CORONET. 

"  Such  a  head  ! "  came  the  echo  from  lip  after  lip,  with  a  half- 
lisped  finis  from  the  baby-pet,  Fanny  Forester. 

Alas  !  that  Nature,  who  it  is  generally  believed  may  be  im 
plicitly  trusted  in  matters  touching  pedigree,  should,  on  this 
occasion,  so  far  forget  herself  as  to  send  a  model  for  a  princess 
of  the  blood  royal  across  the  water,  where  women  are  expected 
to  wash  their  own  dishes  and  scrub  their  own  floors  ! 

It  must  have  been  some  awkward  mistake,  and  I  have  since 
eome  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss  Rosina  Brown  was  intended 
for  the  Queen  of  England,  and  the  more  simple  Victoria  for 
Miss  Rosina  Brown.  Be  that  as  it  may,  many  were  the 
fresh-hearted,  simple-souled  little  damsels  who  threw  up  their 
pretty  hands  in  ecstasy  at  every  sentiment  she  uttered,  and 
heard  her  animadvert  on  fashion,  refinement,  and,  above  all, 
aristocracy,  with  staring  eyes  and  gaping  mouths.  Among 
these  did  Miss  Rosina  move  a  queen,  though  deprived  of  any 
other  court.  We  understood  the  contraction  of  her  brow,  the 
drawing  up  of  her  neck,  and  the  curl  of  her  lip  perfectly  well ; 
and  unfortunate  indeed  was  the  stranger  who,  by  some  pecu* 
liarity  of  voice  or  manner,  or  the  display  of  some  article  of 
dress  not  precisely  in  accordance  with  our  sovereign's  taste, 
called  down  upon  herself  these  unequivocal  marks  of  disap 
probation.  But  Miss  Brown,  (if  her  title  must  needs  be  simple 
Miss,  pray  why  could  n't  it  have  been  Neville  or  Montfort,  or 
something  that  had  at  least  a  shadow  of  nobility  about  it  ?) 
Miss  Brown,  with  all  her  holdings  forth  on  aristocracy,  could 
not  have  defined  the  word  any  better  than  two  thirds  of  the 
brilliant  misses  and  ambitious  mammas  that  have  so  well  nigh 
exhausted  the  theme  by  their  continual  harpings,  both  before 
her  day  and  since  her  settlement.  She  knew  that  aristocrats 
were  a  touch  above  the  vulgar,  that  they  lost  caste  by  making 
themselves  useful,  that  they  should  not  come  in  contact  with 
— with — well,  even  I,  her  pet  pupil,  have  forgotten  whom; 
but  it  is  a  class  whose  traits  it  is  given  them  to  understand 
intuitively.  That  aristocracy  is  a  shadowy  word  to  me  yet ; 
for  it  is  enveloped  in  the  misty  veil  of  Miss  Brown's  explana 
tions.  I  think  it  conveyed  the  idea  of  some  exclusive  privi- 


BORN    TO   WEAR    A   CORONET.  53 

leges,  I  do  not  recollect  what,  and  a  particular  way  of  bowing 
and  curtsying,  I  have  forgotten  how ;  whether  it  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  curl  of  the  hair,  or  bend  in  the  bridge  of  the 
nose,  I  cannot  say ;  but  it  certainly  had  with  the  curvature  of 
the  lips,  for  I  recollect  one  sweet  little  girl  was  voted  plebeian 
by  Miss  Brown's  court,  because,  after  numerous  lessons,  she 
could  not  throw  up  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth,  as  my 
Zikka  does  when  angered  by  the  bit.  Neither  do  I  know 
whether  high  birth  had  part  or  parcel  m  the  matter  of  making 
an  aristocrat,  but  I  half  suspect  in  theory  it  had ;  for  I  remem 
ber  one  young  lady  who  was  considered  an  unfit  associate, 
because  her  father  was  a  "  vile  mechanic ;"  and  Miss  Brown 
carefully  concealed  from  us  the  fact,  that  her  dear  papa  was 
the  same  Adam  Brown,  the  flower  of  his  profession,  who  had 
graced  so  well  the  character  of  "  mine  host,"  proud,  rather 
than  ashamed,  of  the  gilt  letters  emblazoned  on  the  swinging 
sign  before  his  door.  Adam  Brown  was  a  worthy,  pains 
taking  man,  kind  and  affable,  and  very  much  of  a  gentleman 
withal,  having  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  his  business 
was  incompatible  with  the  maintenance  of  that  character. 
Neither  was  his  fair  daughter  troubled  with  any  qualms  about 
the  matter ;  but  she  flitted  like  the  gladsome  thing  that  she 
was  among  the  numerous  visitors,  laid  the  snowy  cloth,  served 
the  tea,  and  performed  the  thousand  other  offices  that  none 
can  grace  so  well  as  a  sweet  little  girl,  flashing  with  spirit 
and  dimpling  with  good  humor.  Indeed,  though  afraid  of 
scandalizing  myself  by  the  expression  of  such  a  sentiment,  I 
do  more  than  half  suspect  that  much  of  Miss  Brown's  Zeno- 
bian  grace  was  picked  up  in  this  very  manner.  If  she  did 
not  owe  the  shape  of  her  head  to  the  duties  of  the  hostel,  she 
certainly  did  the  carriage  of  it ;  and  not  a  coroneted  brow  in 
Christendom  could  bear  its  honors  more  proudly  than  she  the 
clustering  wealth  of  her  own  black  tresses.  But  things  were 
not  destined  to  continue  long  in  such  an  even  course.  Adam 
Brown  died,  lamented  as  men  who  "  act  well  their  parts " 
always  will  be,  and  left  his  daughter  an  heiress. 

Of  such  stuff  as  this  are  American  aristocrats  made  —  they 

VOL.  II.  5* 


54  BORN    TO    WEAR   A    CORONET. 

lay  the  parent  who  has  toiled  for  them  in  his  grave,  and  rear 
the  fabric  of  their  miserable,  degrading  glory  on  his  ashes. 
Their  fathers  are  honest  laborers,  they  are  spendthrifts  and 
mountebanks,  and  their  children,  if  no  worse,  are  beggars. 
(Dear  reader  !  a  word  in  your  ear.  From  the  dash  a  couple 
of  sentences  back,  not  a  word  of  all  this  rant  is  mine ;  but, 
unluckily,  there  is  leaning  over  my  shoulder  a  Democratic 
monomaniac  —  a  genuine  Jeffersonian  Polk-and-Texas-man, 
as  he  calls  himself,  and  I  must  needs  submit,  now  and  then, 
to  an  interpolation.) 

It  was  a  sad  day  when  our  clique  of  exclusives  was  broken 
up  by  the  loss  of  the  nucleus  round  which  we  gathered ;  but 
we  all  promised  never,  never  to  forget  Rosina  Brown,  and 
kept  the  promise  as  well  as  school-girls  usually  do.  In  a 
short  time  rumor  brought  to  our  ears  something,  I  scarce 
know  what,  about  her  marriage  ;  and,  one  by  one,  most  of 
us  followed  in  her  wake,  till  scarce  a  heart  in  our  little  band 
but  beat  the  echo  to  another's  throbbings.  Then  we  were 
scattered  widely ;  none  but  us  "  little  ones  "  remaining  at 
Alderbrook,  and  we  were  of  course  so  fluttered  at  the  idea  of 
growing  up  into  womanhood  as  to  forget  our  a-b-c  days  en 
tirely.  Even  our  little  keepsakes  found  their  way  into  the 
ashes,  or  at  best  some  old  bag  or  oaken  chest  in  the  garret ; 
and  scarce  a  trace  remains  to  tell  of  by- gone  days,  except, 
now  and  then,  a  faded  flower  within  the  heart,  which  the 
dews  of  memory  cannot  soften  into  life.  Thus  lasting  are  the 
friendships  founded  on  a  momentary  fancy,  and  nourished  by 
flattery.  Sometimes  I  felt  some  interest  —  not  curiosity,  oh, 
no  !  —  in  the  fate  of  my  dear  Rosina;  but  I  always  quieted 
myself  with  the  reflection  that  she  must  be  the  star  of  some 
proud  circle ;  and,  if  truth  must  be  told,  I  had  become  so  in 
love  with  the  quiet,  simple  beauties  of  our  darling  Underbill, 
that  I  valued  her  estate  but  lightly,  however  high  it  might  be. 
But  of  its  elevation  I  doubted  not;  and  when  fame  conde 
scended,  now  and  then,  to  waft  the  name  of  some  beautiful 
lady,  one  who  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  in  her  own  land, 


BORN   TO   WEAR   A    CORONET.  55 

across  the  Atlantic,  I  involuntarily  inquired  if  she  were  not 
American  born. 

More  than  a  dozen  years  had  passed  when  I  took  a  journey 
to  the  far  west.  Oh !  those  wild,  luxuriant  woods  !  Every 
pulse  within  me  dances  at  the  remembrance  of  them,  and 
even  yet  my  heart  nutters  like  a  caged  bird  in  sight  of  its  own 
free  heaven.  How  I  clapped  my  hands,  and  laughed,  and 
shouted  in  baby-like  glee,  until  the  old  woods  rang  with 
ten  thousand  answering  echoes.  Then  how  I  sat  and 
dreamed,  till  fancy  transported  me  to  gay  Sherwood,  and  I 
detected  among  the  changing  foliage  the  Lincoln  green,  and 
started  at  every  leaf  that  rustled,  expecting  to  see  peering  out 
upon  me  the  face  of  bold  Robin  Hood,  or  some  one  of  his 
merry  foresters.  Oh !  beautiful  wild,  wild  west !  I  love 
thee,  not  "  despite  thy  faults,"  but,  as  rare  Elia  did  things 
scarce  more  loveable,  "  faults  and  all."  I  love  even  thy  cor 
duroy  roads,  mud  and  underbrush,  log  houses  without  win 
dows,  quizzing  inhabitants,  and  gruff,  bragging  hosts,  who 
think  it  very  strange  that  people  can  have  any  objection  to 
sleeping  a  dozen  in  a  room,  particularly  if  it  be  summer,  and 
that  room  has  no  air-hole  but  a  chink  in  the  wall,  made  for 
the  especial  benefit  of  beetles  and  musquitoes. 

We  had  left  Will  Waters'  fine  farm  away  in  the  distance, 
and  commenced  our  return  home.  Oh,  such  roads !  Our 
ample  wagon  was  like  a  miniature  ark  of  particularly  clumsy 
make,  now  rising  on  the  tip-top  of  a  billow,  and  suddenly  sink 
ing  almost  out  of  sight.  Then  we  had  an  over-turn,  and  that 
was  the  climax  of  the  day's  enjoyment ;  for  nobody  was  hurt, 
and  everybody  laughed,  and  perpetrated  stale  witticisms  and 
laughed  at  them  again  ;  till  the  birds  were  no  doubt  convinced 
that  upsetting  a  big  travelling- wagon  is  one  of  the  rarest  sports 
we  humans  engage  in.  Next  the  horses,  panting  as  though 
worn  out  by  their  own  strong  will,  set  their  forward  feet  stub 
bornly  down,  refusing  to  part  company  with  the  turf  even  for 
an  instant ;  the  driver  nourished  his  whip  and  swore  roundly , 
the  gentlemen  coaxed  the  horses,  soothed  the  driver,  and 
laughed  with  us,  who,  with  comical  glances,  half  of  mirth  half 


56  LORN    TO   WEAR   A   CORONET. 

of  anxiety,  nibbled  the  tips  of  our  kid  gloves  and  wondered 
what  we  should  do.  Then  all  at  once  one  prying  fellow  of 
our  party  announced  that  a  spring  was  broken,  a  pin  lost,  01 
something  of  that  sort  had  occurred,  which  women  are  sure 
to  get  wrong  if  they  mention  it  afterwards  ;  to  which  the  pro 
voking  driver  responded  that  a  horse  had  lost  a  shoe.  And 
so,  as  in  duty  bound,  we  all  laughed  again,  not  heartily,  as 
before,  but  a  nervous,  hysterical  laugh.  The  gentlemen 
looked  perplexed ;  we  cast  sidelong  glances  at  the  woods,  as 
though  the  wolves  had  already  smelt  out  our  discomfiture,  and 
were  only  hiding  behind  the  nearest  trees  till  night-fall ;  and 
the  driver  used  harder  words  than  ever.  A  consultation  was 
now  held,  rather  short  to  be  sure,  as  consultations  are  apt  to 
be  when  there  remains  but  one  path  to  choose  ;  and  then  each 
gentleman  tucked  his  lady  under  his  arm,  and  on  we  jogged 
as  merrily  as  before.  It  might  be  five  miles,  indeed  it  might 
be  twenty,  to  any  human  habitation,  but  no  —  it  was  only  one. 
A  neat  log  cabin,  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  a  Paradisal 
bower,  its  white-washed  walls  nearly  concealed  by  woodbine 
and  eglantine,  loomed  up  from  an  expanse  of  cleared  land;- 
and,  all  at  once,  our  rejoiced  party  discovered  that  we  were 
very  tired,  and  could  not  have  lived  to  walk  farther  than  this 
one  mile.  Beautiful  dark-eyed  children,  in  neat,  coarse 
dresses,  were  playing  about  the  cottage,  and  interrupting  with 
the  cry  —  "Oh!  look  here,  father  !"  — «  Father  !  Kobin  has 
hit  the  target!"  —  a  tall,  sun-embrowned,  intellectual  looking 
man,  who  was  reading  in  the  doorway.  We  were  cordially 
welcomed  by  this  man,  and  shown  into  a  little  room  full  of 
flowers  and  green  bushes,  through  the  leaves  of  which  the 
hot  air,  made  heavy  by  the  weight  of  the  sunshine,  cooled 
itself  and  dallied  lovingly  with  the  flowers,  then  came  to  play 
about  us  who  knew  so  well  how  to  appreciate  both  its  fresh 
ness  and  its  perfume. 

"  A  little  paradise  ! "  whispered  I. 

"  Almost  equal  to  the  nestling-place  of  your  friend  Nora," 
returned  J — ,  in  the  same  tone. 


TQ   WEAR    A    CORONET.  57 

"  A  pretty  good  house-keeper  for  the  woods,  I  imagine," 
added  another  of  our  party. 

"  House-keeper,  indeed  !  Who  would  think  of  a  house 
keeper's  arranging  all  this  ?  It  was  undoubtedly  some  little 
sprite  with  taste  enough  to  prefer  such  a  bright  spot  to  fairy 
land  ! "  And  I  tossed  my  head  in  make-believe  playfulness ; 
but,  in  reality,  feeling  quite  resentful  that  any  one  should 
think  of  such  prosaic  things  as  house-keeping  in  a  place  like 
this. 

So  I  looked  about  among  the  foliage  for  my  sylvan  deity, 
but  nothing  was  there  more  fairy-like  than  a  domesticated 
robin,  which,  perched  on  a  fresh  bough  that  waved  above  the 
snowy  pine  mantel,  was  practising  a  little  duet  with  its  part 
ner  in  the  fragrant  bass-wood,  just  beyond  the  court-yard 
fence.  But  we  had  no  more  time  for  observation  or  remark. 
Our  hostess,  a  young  woman  of  dignified,  matronly  air,  as 
unlike  a  fairy  as  anything  you  can  imagine,  came  in  to  wel 
come  us ;  and,  shortly  after,  we  were  seated  around  a  plenti 
ful  board,  smoking  with  hot  corn  cakes,  and  the  most  fragrant 
imperial,  and  —  oh!  didn't  we  do  justice  to  these  same? 
And  did  the  fresh  cream,  and  the  strawberries,  and  the  snowy 
cold  bread  for  those  who  preferred  it,  and  the  raspberry  jam, 
or  any  of  the  other  nice  things,  suffer  from  neglect  ?  During 
the  repast  the  fine  eyes  of  our  hostess  frequently  turned  on 
me,  and  there  was  such  a  peculiar  attraction  in  their  deep 
darkness,  that  mine  invariably  met  them.  Then  there  was  a 
little  blushing,  a  little  confusion  on  both  sides,  and  a  resolu 
tion  on  my  part  not  to  be  so  rude  and  stare  so  again.  After 
tea  we  repaired  to  the  little  embowered  parlor,  while  our 
hostess  was  "  putting  things  to  rights,"  and  in  less  than  a  half 
hour  were  joined  by  her  and  her  husband.  They  kept  up  an 
interesting  conversation,  but  I  was  silent  and  perplexed. 
There  was  something  in  the  face,  air,  and  manner  of  this 
woodland  lady  that  was  familiar ;  and  at  the  same  time  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  never  seen  any  one  so  dignified,  so  self-pos 
sessed,  and  yet  so  simple  and  unaffected  in  every  word  and 


58  BORN  TO  WEAR  A  CORONET. 

movement.  I  ran  over  my  list  of  acquaintances  that  had 
"  married  and  gone  west ;"  but  no,  it  was  none  of  these. 

"  Fanny'"  exclaimed  J.,  somewhat  impatiently,  "are  you 
dreaming  ?  I  have  spoken  to  you  three  times  without  getting 
an  answer.  Our  host  tells  me  that  his  wife  spent  some  of 
her  school-days  at  Alderbrook." 

"  At  Alderbrook  ?  " 

It  came  like  a  flash  of  light. 

"  Rosina  Brown ! " 

"  My  little  Fanny ! "  and  we  were  locked  fast  in  each  oth 
er's  arms. 

My  countess,  my  queen,  here  in  the  wilderness,  actually 
washing  her  own  dishes,  and  sweeping  the  floor  of  her  own 
log-house,  and  "  not  always  with  a  civilized  broom  either,"  as 
she  laughingly  asserted.  Only  think  of  it !  Of  course  I  was 
astounded ;  and  no  wonder  that  I  did  n't  venture  on  asking  a 
single  question,  while  she  overpowered  me  with  a  whole  vol 
ley.  But  at  midnight,  when  all  were  asleep  within,  and  the 
stars  alone  kept  watch  without,  (Rosina  assured  me  that  there 
was  not  a  wolf  in  the  whole  neighborhood,)  we  stole  away, 
and  beneath  the  silent  trees  renewed  our  former  intimacy. 

"  And  so  you  wonder,"  said  Rosina,  "  at  my  being  here. 
Well,  so  do  I  sometimes ;  but  oftener  I  wonder  why  I  am  so 
happy,  so  contented,  so  willingly  circumscribed  in  my  wantf 
and  desires,  and  yet  so  free  in  soul  and  fancy.  Believe  me, 
Fanny,  I  never  before  knew  a  single  day  of  such  pure,  unal 
loyed  happiness  as  I  have  enjoyed  every  day  since  we  shel 
tered  our  pretty  birds  within  this  forest  nook.  Don't  you 
think  they  are  pretty,  Fanny  ?  They  stole  their  red  cheeks 
from  the  dewy  flowers,  and  their  bright  eyes  have  grown 
brighter  by  looking  on  the  beautiful  things  about  them.  Then 
these  stately  old  trees  have  made  them  thoughtful  and  deep- 
hearted  ;  and  they  are  little  musicians,  too,  vying  with  the 
woodland  minstrels  in  melody." 

"  Perfect  cherubs  —  and  so  happy  and  healthful ! " 

"Yes — happy,  and  healthful,  and  frolicsome,  as  the  young 
colts  you  must  have  passed  when  you  wound  around  the  bend 


BORN  TO  WEAR   A    CORONET.  59 

in  the  creek.  They  used  often  to  be  sick,  and  I  watched 
beside  them  until  all  the  color  was  gone  from  my  cheek,  and  I 
acquired  this  stoop  in  my  shoulders — see!  I  never  shall  be 
straight  again ! " 

"Oh!  I  should  n't  observe  it  at  all — it  is  very  slight  in 
deed,  and  you  will  soon  overcome  it.  But  do  tell  me  how  it 
happened  that  you,  of  all  others,  should  marry  a  farmer,  and 
—and—" 

"  A  poor  man,  you  would  say.     I  did  not." 

And  then  I  listened  to  a  story,  of  which  I  should  never 
have  dreamed  that  Rosina  Brown  could  be  the  subject. 

Rosina  had  met  Richard  Merrival  several  times  before  she 
came  to  Alderbrook,  and  their  acquaintance  was  renewed 
every  vacation.  So  when  she  had  "finished,"  and  he  threw 
off  the  student  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  it  was  no  great 
wonder  that  he  pleaded  his  first  cause  in  the  queenly  presence 
of  Rosina  Brown.  It  were  a  pity,  indeed,  if  such  a  handsome 
young  barrister  should  plead  in  vain ;  and  so  Merrival  en 
snared  his  lady-bird,  and  bore  her  away  to  town  ;  and  there, 
in  an  elegant  mansion,  surrounded  by  every  luxury,  their 
chief  study  seemed  to  be  how  to  make  everything  about  them 
more  luxurious  still.  At  length  their  means  failed,  and  Mer 
rival  applied  to  his  father.  But  this  fountain  of  wealth 
was  dry.  Failure  had  followed  up  the  old  man's  golden 
schemes,  and  Richard  Merrival  and  his  father  were  beggars. 
Rosina  saw  herself  falling ;  she  knew  that  the  magic  circle  of 
which  she  had  been  the  brightest  star  was  shutting  her  with 
out  its  pale ;  the  glittering  bubble,  which,  in  her  girlish  days, 
she  believed  it  the  chief  aim  of  her  life  to  grasp  closely,  was 
crushed  within  her  hand.  All  that  was  bright,  all  that  was 
gladsome,  all  that  was  worthy  of  possession  in  this  world  — 
every  meteor  that  for  long  years  she  had  gazed  upon  and 
believed  a  sun  —  all  the  roses  that  had  clustered  so  luxuriantly 
about  her  path — all  receded  now,  and  the  world  lay  stretched 
out  before  her,  a  wilderness.  And  yet,  an  old  friend  came, 
one  who  had  loved  her  when  a  little  girl  in  the  inn  by  the 
way-side,  and  she  would  not  know  him.  No !  come  poverty, 


60  BORN   TO   WEAR   A   CORONET. 

come  beggary,  come  starvation  even,  —  these  should  not  bow 
her  spirit  to  go  back  to  things  she  had  despised.  She  could 
suffer,  but  she  would  not  bend.  And  so  the  old  friend  went 
away,  and  Rosina  wondered  where  she  should  find  bread  for 
her  children. 

But  Merrival,  though  he  had  spent  years  in  idleness,  was 
gifted  and  eloquent.  He  knew  that  his  profession  was  a  for 
tune  in  itself,  and  he  gathered  strength,  as  manliness  ever 
does  when  struggling  with  obstacles.  With  a  heart  some 
what  lightened,  he  sat  down  by  his  humble  fireside  at  evening, 
to  gain  sympathy  from  the  loved  ones.  But  discontent  and 
misery  were  there.  His  wife  complained;  his  pampered 
children  missed  their  accustomed  luxuries,  and  they  com 
plained  also ;  recrimination  followed  between  the  husband  and 
the  wife,  and  they  lay  down  to  rest  with  hearts  full  of  bitter 
ness  toward  each  other.  When  the  whole  world  is  the  object 
of  bitterness  the  individaal  is  never  spared. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Richard  Merrival  grew  gay  again ;  but 
it  was  over  the  cup  of  death.  His  laugh  was  long  and  loud, 
and  his  eye  had  a  fearful  sparkle  to  it — a  flash  that  every  one 
knew  was  but  the  kindling  of  pent-up  misery.  The  little  cot 
tage  grew  dark  and  darker,  the  loving  heart  grew  desolate ; 
but  on  the  top  wave  of  anguish  rode  always  the  harrowing 
thought  —  "Bread!  bread  for  the  little  ones  whom  God  has 
given  me ! " 

Months — years  went  by,  and  Rosina  was  a  drunkard's 
wife !  Not  a  tithe  of  the  degradation  of  such  a  lot  was 
abated ;  but  the  bitterness  of  her  spirit  was  drowned  in  sor 
row.  She  had  watched  day  and  night  by  the  bed-side  of 
innocence,  and  she  grew  gentle  in  such  an  atmosphere.  Then 
she  laid  two  of  her  sweet  nurslings  in  the  grave,  and  so  a  link 
was  forged  between  her  heart  and  heaven. 

A  change  came  over  Merrival.  Poverty  had  taken  up  its 
abode  by  his  fireside ;  suffering  and  sorrow  were  there,  but 
none  of  these  had  driven  him  thence.  It  was  the  bitterness 
of  crushed  pride  ;  and  that  was  a  guest  there  no  longer.  He 
kid  his  hand  upon  the  icy  forehead  of  his  dead  child,  his  first- 


BORN   TO    WEAR    A    CORONET.  61 

born  darling  boy,  and  took  upon  his  soul  a  vow,  and  that  vow 
never  was  broken.  And  now  behold  them,  pale  and  weary, 
but  calm  and  hopeful,  wending-  their  way  to  the  far  west, 
where  they  might  forget  their  vain  dreams  and  their  degrada 
tion  together. 

u  We  are  yet  poor  in  gold  and  lands,"  continued  Rosina, 
"  but  are  rich  in  health  and  peace,  in  our  children,  and  in 
each  other.  And  now,  my  dear  Fanny,"  she  added,  as  we 
turned  toward  the  house,  "  I  am  as  aristocratic  as  ever.  We 
lord  it  over  the  natives  of  these  wilds,  the  birds  and  beasts,  as 
though  we  were  peers  of  the  realm  —  Nature's  realm  —  and 
claim  the  exclusive  privilege  of  making  each  other  happy,  and 
of  offering  our  humble  roof  to  the  stranger  benighted  in  these 
woods,  —  privileges  which  not  a  living  thing  about  us  ventures 
to  exercise." 

"  But  do  you  never  long  for  society,  Rosina  ?" 

"  Society  ? " 

She  led  me  to  a  couch  where  two  living  rose-buds,  two 
bright-lipped  sleeping  Hebes,  lay  nestling  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  throwing  back  rich  clusters  of  golden  curls,  kissed 
cheek,  and  lip,  and  forehead,  —  a  gentle,  loving  pressure,  so 
mother-like  that  a  tear  sprang  to  my  eye,  for  I  seemed  again 
lying  in  my  own  little  cot  at  Alderbrook. 

"  Look  at  these,  Fanny ;  and  my  two  noble  boys  !  What 
more  society  could  I  desire,  unless  it  be  his !  I  wish  you 
knew  my  husband,  Fanny.  I  used  to  boast  that  he  was  a 
perfect  gentleman,  and  so  he  was  ;  but  that  is  an  abused  term, 
and  now  I  know  the  highest  praise  that  I  can  offer  is  that  he 
is  a  man!  —  in  heart,  and  soul,  and  intellect,  a  man  —  full  of 
integiity,  and  courage,  and  strength,  and  truth  —  in  short,  my 
little  Fanny,  he  is,  as  I  suppose  every  loving  wife  thinks  of 
her  lucky  Benedict  —  the  one  man  in  the  world ! " 

It  was  almost  morning  when  Mrs.  Merrival  and  myself 
gave  the  good-night  kiss,  and  turned  away  to  dream  of  our 
school-days  at  Alderbrook. 

When  the  sun  arose,  and  the  discovery  was  made  that  we 
should  be  detained  a  whole  day  and  night  longer  in  our  par- 

VOL.  n.  6 


62  BORN    TO    WEAR    A   CORONET. 

lor-bower,  my  resignation  on  the  occasion  entitled  me  to  become 
pattern-woman  for  the  whole  party ;  and  our  hostess  looked 
anything  but  sad  at  our  discomfiture.  It  was  a  happy  day  ; 
and,  when  evening  came  again,  I  no  longer  wondered  that 
Rosina  was  satisfied  with  her  society.  In  the  course  of  the 
day  I  took  a  peep  into  the  little  library,  composed  of  a  few 
choice  volumes,  to  which  the  Merrivals  had  clung  in  weal  and 
woe ;  walked  into  the  garden  and  viewed,  not  only  the  wall 
flowers  and  sweet  peas,  but  the  beans  and  cabbages  ;  and  then 
went  to  the  log  barn  across  the  creek,  and  brought  in  our 
own  hands  the  fresh  eggs  that  were  served  up  for  dinner.  I 
learned,  also,  that  Master  Robert  Merrival,  the  active  little 
fellow  who  had  just  "  hit  the  target,"  on  our  arrival,  mounted 
the  pony  Roger  every  Saturday,  and  rode  off  fifteen  miles,  to 
the  nearest  post-office,  whence  he  returned  well  laden  with 
papers  and  letters. 

Another  morning  came,  and  we  turned  with  reluctance 
from  our  parlor-bower,  and  with  still  more  reluctance  from  the 
dear  ones  who  had  constructed  it,  to  pursue  our  journey. 
The  adieus,  the  prayers  and  prophecies,  the  clasping  of  hands 
and  kissing  of  lips,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe ;  neither  the 
heart-swell  that  it  took  so  many  miles  to  calm ;  for  I  would 
not  leave  a  tear  here  at  the  close  of  my  tale.  So  we  parted, 
the  Alderbrook  Zenobia  and  her  little  worshipper.  A  strange 
throne  that  of  rare  Rosina  Brown's !  —  her  hut  away  in  the 

green  wilderness.     And   yet  —  and  yet,  I   do  believe 

Well !  I  will  not  brave  a  straight-jacket  for  the  sake  of  having 
my  say ;  but  whatever  mistake  Fortune  may  have  made  in 
the  execution  of  her  plan,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  my 
proud-browed  friend  was  at  least  born  to  wear  a  coronet.  J. 
says  I  am  mistaken  ,  that  I  must  be  thinking  of  her  husband's 
"  crown. 


63 


WILLARD  LAWSON. 

CHAPTER    I. LEAVING   HOME, 

"  You  will  be  sorry  for  it,  Willard." 

"  Sorry !  I  tell  you,  Sophy,  I  have  been  in  leading  strings 
long  enough ;  and  I  will  go  where  I  can,  now  and  then,  do  as 
I  choose ! " 

"  You  will  be  back  in  less  than  three  days." 

"  No,  not  in  less  than  three  years.  Come,  tell  me  what 
I  shall  bring  you  from  over  the  seas ;  they  have  all  sorts  of 
gimcracks  in  the  Indies,  and,  maybe,  I  shall  go  to  China, 
or—" 

"  Or  take  a  peep  into  Symm's  hole,  or  a  ride  on  the  roc's 
back.  Bring  me  a  pair  of  slippers  from  Lilliput." 

"  I  will  bring  you  a  pair  so  small  that  you  cannot  wear 
them,  if  that  is  what  you  like ;  and  a  rare  India  shawl,  to  beat 
cousin  Meg's." 

"  I  hope  you  will  get  your  purse  well  replenished ;  I  dare 
say  you  will  find  them  in  New  York." 

"New  York!" 

"  Don't  speak  so  contemptuously  of  our  mammoth  city, 
Will ;  there  will  be  a  little  fading  out  of  those  handsome  curls, 
I  dare  say,  before  you  will  see  a  larger." 

"  I  tell  you,  Sophy,  I  am  going  to  sea.  What  part  of  the 
world  I  may  visit,  I  don't  know ;  but  it  will  be  many  a  long 
year  before  you  will  see  me  again." 

"  Nonsense,  Will,  think  of  scrambling  up  ropes  and  perch 
ing  in  the  air  like  a  monkey !  You  have  always  had  a  taste 
that  way,  I  know,  but  try  it  in  a  gale,  and  you  would  soon 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  had  a  little  too  much  of  it. 
Come,  this  freak  of  yours  is  all  nonsense ;  be  obedient,  and 
father  will  be  kind  to  you,  but  you  know  it  was  wrong  for  you 
to  go " 


64  WILLARD    LAWS  ON. 

"  I  know  it  was  not  wrong,  Sophy,  and  I  am  glad  I  went. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  right  anybody  has  to  hinder  me 
from  speaking  to  a  school-fellow  now  and  then,  or  even  from 
shaking  my  toe  in  a  dance,  if  I  choose.  Wondrous  good 
some  people  are,  indeed !  I  wish  they  would  tell  me  how 
much  worse  dancing  is  than  anger ;  and  did  n't  you  see  how 
pale  he  turned  ?  James  turned  pale,  too,  for  I  believe  he 
thought  I  would  get  knocked  down.  I  almost  wish  he  had 
done  it." 

"Willard!" 

"  He  drives  me  to  it,  Sophy." 

"  If  you  go  away  with  these  bad  feelings,  I  am  afraid  you 
never  will  come  back  again." 

"Maybe — but — yes,  I  shall — of  course  I  shall.  I  shall 
want  to  see  you,  and — and  all.  Oh,  I  shall  come  back  some 
time." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Willard." 

The  observation  seemed  to  induce  a  new  train  of  thought, 
for  the  boy's  excited  countenance  assumed  an  unusual  sober 
ness  ;  a  tear  crept  to  his  eye  and  twinkled  on  the  upraised 
lash,  but  he  brushed  it  hastily  away,  and  with  a  "  never  fear 
for  that,  Sophy,"  sprang  to  the  door,  as  though  afraid  to  trust 
his  voice  with  another  word.  The  sister  waited  awhile  for  his 
return,  thinking  that  he  would  at  least  bid  her  a  good-night ; 
but  when  she  perceived  that  he  was  not  coming,  she  began  to 
persuade  herself  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his  folly  and  would 
be  in  better  temper  in  the  morning,  or  that  her  father  would 
abate  some  of  his  sternness ;  at  any  rate,  somehow,  the  diffi 
culty  would  be  settled,  as  others  had  been  before ;  and  so  she 
went  to  sleep.  These  troubles  were  nothing  new  to  her. 
Judge  Lawson  was  a  noble-minded,  upright  man,  who  exer 
cised  a  kind  of  patriarchal  sway,  not  only  in  his  family,  but 
over  the  whole  neighborhood.  He  was  a  good  father  and  a 
kind  neighbor  in  the  main,  but  stern  and  self-willed ;  all 
suavity  and  gentleness  when  obeyed,  but  woe  to  the  luckless 
one  who  dared  to  oppose  his  plans  or  wishes !  To  such, 
if  the  truth  must  be  owned,  Judge  Lawson  was  a  tyrant.  He 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  65 

had  managed,  however,  without  unpleasant  bickerings,  to 
bring  up  his  family  in  the  strictest  integrity ;  and  they  were 
now  about  him,  doing  honor  to  his  gray  hairs.  They  had 
yielded  to  him;  he  had  led  them  wisely,  and  now  they 
honored  him  with  all  their  hearts.  Sons  and  sons-in-law 
looked  up  to  him  with  reverence ;  all  but  a  bold,  daring  boy, 
his  youngest  child,  the  handsomest  and  the  bravest,  but,  alas  ! 
so  full  of  faults  !  Willard  had  talents,  but  he  did  not  like  the 
trouble  of  cultivating  them ;  like  many  another,  he  was  so 
well  satisfied  with  his  natural  acuteness,  that  he  could  see  no 
necessity  for  bestowing  labor  on  the  mental  soil.  Mistaken 
Willard  !  Mistaken  thousands  !  He  was  spirited  as  a  young 
colt  that  spurns  the  bit,  and  grew  restive  under  his  father's 
control  before  he  had  reached  a  dozen  summers.  Now  he  had 
grown  into  a  tall  stripling,  and  considered  himself  very  nearly 
a  man,  and  was  he  to  be  led  about  like  a  baby?  I  think  —  I 
do  not  know — but  I  really  think  that  if  Judge  Lawson  had 
not  been  quite  so  authoritative  and  unbending,  his  son  Willard 
would  have  been  more  manageable  ;  but  yet  I  must  admit  that 
the  Judge  never  required  anything  of  him  which  was  not 
right.  Then  Willard  was  frank  and  joyous,  with  a  heart  full 
of  generous  sentiments  and  brimming  over  with  sympathy  and 
kindness ;  and  it  must  be  owned  that  there  was  something 
which  shut  down  over  his  spirit  like  a  lid  whenever  he  entered 
his  father's  house.  He  had  felt  it  when  a  little  boy  playing  in 
the  sunshine  on  the  lawn ;  and  used  to  think,  when  called  in 
at  evening,  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  damp,  dark  cellar  in  the 
spring-time ;  but  the  uncomfortable  feeling  had  increased  as 
he  grew  older,  and  now  Willard  Lawson  did  not  love  his 
home.  It  was  a  rare  good  place  for  his  intellect,  but  there 
was  no  room  there  for  his  heart  to  expand.  All  were  kind, 
his  sister  Sophia  especially  so,  but  it  was  a  kindness  which 
was  always  smooth,  and  even,  and  cold ;  no  bubbling,  no  sud 
den  gushes,  like  the  spring  which  lures  the  travel -stained 
wanderer  from  the  way-side,  or  the  fountain  leaping  up  at  the 
kiss  of  the  breezes  and  the  glance  of  the  sun-light ;  but  a  quiet, 
calm,  lifeless  sort  of  kindness,  that  seemed  to  lack  that  uni- 

VQL.    II.  6* 


66  WILLARD     LAWSON. 

versal  inspiration — love.  So  he  went  away  from  home  for 
society,  not  always  selecting  the  best,  for  how  could  the  boy 
know  how  to  choose  rightly  ?  He  found  more  sympathy 
without  doors  than  within,  and  so  Willard  Lawson,  young  as 
he  was,  had  set  both  feet  resolutely  in  a  most  dangerous  path. 
Beware,  Willard !  Nay,  but  he  will  not  beware ;  he  has 
"  been  in  leading  strings  long  enough,"  and  he  has  resolved 
on  emancipation. 

How  much  Willard  Lawson  slept  that  night  I  will  not 
attempt  to  say ;  how  many  misgivings  visited  his  heart  in  the 
lone  darkness,  or  how  much  dearer  his  home  became  as  he 
thought  upon  the  words  of  his  sister :  "  If  you  leave  us  with 
these  bad  feelings,  I  am  afraid  you  never  will  come  back 
again."  The  thoughts  and  emotions  were  his  own.  his  own 
to  brood  over,  his  own  to  bury;  forget  he  probably  never 
would.  Morning  dawned  at  last,  and  by  the  first  faint  glim 
mer  Willard  rose  and  dressed  himself.  He  then  walked 
about  the  little  room  as  though  taking  a  farewell  of  every 
article  of  furniture,  and  looked  from  the  window,  and  walked 
again,  till  a  tear,  actually  a  big  round  tear,  rolled  from  his 
eyes  like  a  red-hot  bullet,  and  dropped  upon  his  hand.  He 
was  alone  now,  and  so  it  was  no  shame  to  weep ;  and  Willard 
did  not  even  put  a  hand  to  his  eyes  while  the  liquid  sorrow 
rained  down  over  his  cheeks  in  torrents.  Poor  boy  !  It  is  a 
pitiful  thing  to  forsake  the  roof  which  sheltered  us  in  our 
helplessness ;  where  the  only  real  love  the  wide  earth  knows 
beamed  on  our  infant  eyes ;  where  tenderness  and  purity  and 
truth  bud  and  blossom  in  the  sunshine  of  kindness  and  the 
dew  of  innocence ;  the  dear  hallowed  hearth-stone,  circled 
round  with  sacred  affections, — pitiful  to  leave  it,  and  for 
what?  Thank  God  for  the  gilded  veil  behind  which  the 
Protean  future  is  allowed  to  conceal  her  features !  Who 
would  look  into  the  book  of  fate  and  read  at  a  glance  his  own 
destiny?  Willard  Lawson  had  no  very  bright  hopes  this 
morning  ;  for  the  false  star  glittering  but  yesterday  before  his 
eyes,  had  set  in  darkness,  been  extinguished  in  tears.  He 
had  laughed  and  sported  in  that  room,  he  had  slept  there 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  67 

while  angels  guarded  him,  he  had  lisped  his  first  prayers 
there,  and  there  too  had  he  almost  forgotten  the  duty.  He 
was  still  but  a  boy,  and  yet  he  was  very  much  changed ;  and 
he  thought  upon  this  change  with  sadness.  What  an  inno 
cent  little  fellow  he  was  when  he  went  to  sleep  hugging  his 
first  top  to  his  bosom,  and  thinking  what  a  dear  good  papa 
his  was  to  bring  such  an  invaluable  present  from  the  town ! 
And  how  often,  in  his  childish  reverence,  had  he  thought  of 
that  same  father,  and  wondered  if  his  Heavenly  Father  could 
be  any  better  or  any  wiser !  And  how  disobedient  he  had 
been  of  late,  and  self-willed,  and  disrespectful;  in  actions 
rather  than  words,  and  in  thoughts  more  than  either.  Dost 
thou  relent,  Willard  ?  Is  there  not  a  softening  in  thy  heart  ? 
Are  not  thy  lips  moving  to  the  words,  "  I  will  arise  and  go 
unto  my  father?"  Ah!  stay  thee,  rash  youth!  Gently, 
gently  !  There  is  a  balm  in  penitential  tears  !  I  already  see 
the  rainbow  arching  thy  heart.  It  is  a  precious  moment, 
Willard ;  beware  !  Nay,  all  is  lost !  That  movement  below, 
followed  by  the  whistle  of  Bluff  Bill,  the  man-of-all-work,  has 
sent  other  thoughts  into  the  head  of  the  stripling,  and  the 
scale  is  turned.  The  tears  are  brushed  away,  and  in  quiet, 
but  hurriedly,  the  room  is  left  without  a  tenant. 

Willard  stood  in  the  yard,  beneath  the  dear  old  trees  where 
he  had  sported  in  childhood.  The  large,  long-limbed  butter 
nut  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  as  now,  since  the  day  when, 
an  urchin  in  petticoats,  he  had  scrambled  up  its  jagged  trunk 
to  get  a  peep  into  the  snug  little  home  of  Madam  Redbreast, 
and  came  down  again  amid  huzzas  and  chidings;  and  as  for 
the  elm  trees,  he  had  pruned  them  himself  many  a  time,  and 
he  had  watched  them  year  after  year,  till  he  knew  the  position 
of  every  graceful  branch  against  the  sky,  as  he  knew  the 
places  of  the  children  at  his  father's  table.  There  was  a 
locust  precisely  his  own  age,  and  the  circumstance  had  been 
so  often  mentioned,  that  he  felt  as  though  somehow  that  tree 
belonged  to  him — was  linked  to  his  life  —  was  a  part  of  him 
self,  which  he  ought  to  carry  away,  or  rather  which  he  ought 
to  stay  and  cherish.  He  cast  a  glance  around  to  see  that  no 


68  WILLARD    LAWSON. 

one  was  near ,  and  then  he  threw  his  arms  about  the  dear  old 
tree,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  rough,  dew-spangled  bark,  as 
though  it  had  been  a  living  object  of  love.  This  done,  he 
looked  back  upon  the  house  hurriedly,  and  passed  on.  In  the 
stable  stood  gay  Larry,  the  fine  young  saddle-horse,  which 
turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  laid  his  finely  arched 
neck  over  his  shoulder,  with  all  the  affection  of  a  child ;  and 
he  patted  the  animal  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  smooth 
glossy  skin,  and  then  buried  his  face  in  the  flowing  mane 
and  wept  unrestrainedly.  Poor  Willard !  Larry  was  an  old 
playmate,  and  that  Larry  loved  him  was  clear,  for  to  no  other 
:ne  was  he  so  gentle  and  obedient.  Oh,  if  Larry  could  but 
go  with  him !  Our  hearts  warm  toward  thee,  dear  Willard, 
more  than  they  did  a  half-hour  since,  when  the  careless 
whistle  of  Bill  awakened  thee  to  all  thy  stubbornness ;  for  there 
-s  that  in  thy  spirit  which  the  angels  know  to  be  priceless. 
Thou  art  even  as  mettlesome  as  thy  pet  Larry ;  but  thou  art 
good  and  noble,  too,  for  thou  lovest  the  poor  dumb  animals 
which  look  up  to  thee  for  care  and  protection,  even  as  thou 
shouldst  look  to  Heaven.  Mayst  thou  never  lose  the  manly 
softness,  young  Willard !  The  lad  found  as  he  passed  on 
that  he  had  bestowed  more  love  on  Lawson  farm  than  he  had 
imagined.  The  cows  —  one  in  particular,  which  had  always 
been  called  his  —  looked  into  his  face  with  a  kind  of  pleading 
mournfulness  —  a  sad,  beseeching  expression,  that  seemed  to 
him  made  up  of  love  and  censure ;  and  then  they  came 
lowing  after  him,  as  though  they  would  yet  entreat  his  return. 
Even  the  fowls  gathered  about  his  feet  familiarly,  and  raised 
a  chorus  of  sounds  which  it  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  inter 
pret.  "  Sir  Chaunticlere"  shook  his  long  parti-colored  plumes 
ominously,  and  sent  out  a  shrill,  high-ringing  warning ;  the 
hens,  cackling,  flocked  before  him,  like  a  swarm  of  butterflies 
in  August;  and  a  dove  flew  from  its  perch  to  his  shoulder, 
and  then  nestled  in  his  bosom,  looking  up  to  him,  with  its 
warm,  melting  eyes  swimming  in  love  as  his  were  in  tears 
There  is  yet  time  to  retract,  Willard.  Take  back  those  dan 
gerous  steps,  and  no  one  will  know  they  have  been  trodden. 


WILLARD   LAWSON.  69 

No,  this  is  not  among  things  possible  to  the  boy.  The  part 
ing  is  taking  the  very  life  from  the  innermost  core  of  his 
heart,  tearing  away  the  threads  which  invisible  fingers  have 
been  braiding  within,  ever  since  his  baby  foot  first  tottered  on 
the  threshold  of  being :  but  who  ever  suspected  Willard  Law- 
son  of  wavering  or  fickleness  ?  Why,  we  might  as  soon 
expect  the  judge  himself  to  change  his  mind  and  reverse  a 
decision  !  Willard,  boy  as  he  is,  will  never  hesitate  and  falter 
after  he  has  resolved ;  but  it  is  no  part  of  his  philosophy  to 
dispense  with  feeling.  Perhaps — I  am  not  sure  how  strong 
the  sense  of  right  may  be  in  his  bosom — but,  perhaps,  if  he 
were  thoroughly  convinced  that  he  was  taking  a  wrong  step, 
one  which  he  would  regret  in  all  after  life,  he  might  yet  be 
induced  to  go  back  and  nestle  again,  more  lovingly  than  ever, 
among  the  dear  old  associations  which  are  clustering  around 
him,  striving  to  entangle  for  good  his  erring  feet.  But 
Willard,  with  his  bold,  free  spirit  swelling  in  his  bosom,  will 
never  stay  with  Larry  and  the  other  dumb  things  that  love 
him,  at  what  his  boyish  inexperience  deems  a  sacrifice  of  his 
yet  unbearded  manliness. 

Willard  passed  from  the  barnyard  without  venturing  to 
look  upon  the  garden  patch,  for  he  had  had  chiding  enough 
without  listening  to  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  green  things 
that  the  morning  breeze  was  dallying  with  ;  and  leaping  the 
stile,  he  took  his  way  across  a  rich  field  of  clover,  which  the 
little  spirits  of  the  night  and  the  messenger  sun-rays  had 
decked  out  in  matchless  diadems.  Sometimes  a  little  sheet 
of  gossamer,  fastened  to  shafts  of  emerald,  gleamed  with  all 
the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  here  and  there  breaking  from  its 
fastenings,  as  highly  gifted  spirits  sometimes  sink  beneath  the 
weight  of  tneir  own  wealth.  Spires  of  grass  bent  beneath 
clusters  of  the  same  jewels ;  and  the  fragrant  clover-heads  and  - 
nodding  butter-cups  flashed  and  sparkled  like  the  coronet  of  a 
duchess.  Birds,  sweet,  glad  little  creatures,  with  wings  and 
voices  but  too  familiar,  carolled  from  the  tree-tops,  or  wheeled 
and  careered  in  mid-air,  mad  with  exultant  happiness,  (blessed 
spirits  of  the  air !)  and  the  bee,  in  his  glossy  black  coat,  writh 


70  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

more  gold  than  even  a  gay  courtier  of  the  olden  time  would 
have  cared  to  deck  his  mantle  with,  sped  beneath  the  soft 
clouds  like  an  arrow,  and  plunged  headlong  among  the  luxu 
riant  sweets  of  the  fragrant  clover  blossoms.  How  all  these 
glad  things  contrasted  with  the  heavy  spirit  of  the  young 
wanderer !  A  stream  went  dancing  and  bubbling  by,  right 
merrily ;  and  close  heside  the  rustic  bridge  was  a  deep  place, 
where  he  had  angled  for  trout  for  many  a  summer.  Willard 
glanced  at  it  and  seemed  inclined  to  stop,  then  passed  on — 
returned  again,  and  kneeling  down,  bent  his  head  far  over 
and  peered  earnestly  down  into  the  water.  A  fin  swept  by, 
with  a  thin  layer  of  silver  over  it ;  and  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  mottled  back,  crimson  and  amber,  and  a  pale,  soft'  azure 
in  a  setting  of  gray.  Another  followed,  and  then  came  a  troop 
of  little  silver  things,  hurrying  after  each  other,  as  though  on 
their  way  to  a  fairy  wedding,  scarce  rippling  the  water  as  they 
went.  Willard  caught  by  a  branch  of  the  birch  tree  that  grew 
there  when  he  first  opened  his  eyes  on  the  landscape,  and 
swung  himself  to  the  bank.  His  seat  was  as  soft  as  the  rich 
est  carpet,  woven  of  glossy  brown  and  gold ;  and  as  he  again 
bent  over  the  stream,  he  scooped  up  handfuls  of  the  cold  water 
and  dashed  them  over  his  burning  face,  jewelling  his  wavy 
hair  and  the  luxurious  bank  together.  Along  the  borders  of 
the  stream  grew  clumps  of  willows,  their  narrow  leaves  trem 
bling  on  the  breath  of  the  morning,  and  now  and  then  a  \vild 
elm,  shagged  with  green  away  down  to  the  earth,  or  a  round- 
topped  maple,  or  a  silver-coated  beech;  and  at  their  roots 
sprang  troops  of  flowers,  bending  their  blue  and  crimson  cups 
to  the  water,  while  in  the  spots  of  light  breaking  through  their 
branches  swarmed  clans  of  bright-hued  insects,  dipping  their 
gay  wings  in  the  liquid  gold  of  morning,  and  warming  their 
bloodless  limbs  at  the  heart  of  nature.  It  was  beautiful,  and 
Willard  had  often  thought  so ;  but  now  his  heart  yearned  to 
ward  the  familiar  scene,  and  he  would  have  taken  the  whole 
to  his  bosom  and  folded  his  arms  about  it  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother  clasps  the  child  she  dotes  upon.  Again  the  tears 
rushed  to  his  eyes,  and  again  he  dashed  the  cool  water  upon 


WILLARD  LAWSON.  71 

his  face ;  and,  without  turning  for  another  glance,  hurried  on. 
The  sheep  were  speckling  the  green  of  the  neighboring  pas 
tures,  and  the  horses  were  bounding  and  tossing  their  manes 
in  play,  or  quietly  cropping  the  grass  at  their  feet ;  but  Wil- 
lard  had  grown  wiser  and  did  not  trust  himself  among  them. 
He  sprang  over  the  fence  and  proceeded  resolutely  along  the 
roadside.  But  his  trials  were  not  yet  over.  With  a  cry  of 
joy,  that  seemed  almost  human,  a  dog  rushed  over  the  banks 
among  the  thorny  bushes,  scattering  down  a  shower  of  rain 
drops,  bounded  over  the  fence,  and  leaped,  quivering  all  over 
with  gladness,  to  the  shoulders  of  his  young  master. 

"  Good  dog !  good  Rover ! "  exclaimed  the  boy,  in  a  husky, 
broken  voice,  patting  the  head  and  smoothing  the  neck  of  his 
favorite.  "  Good  fellow  !  I  did  not  want  to  scold  you,  and 
so  —  Bill  should  have  known  better  than  to  set  you  free. 
But  I  must  take  nothing,  not  even  my  own  dog,  from  the 
farm.  Go  back,  Rover,  go  back ! " 

The  dog  seemed  to  understand  the  words,  though  they 
were  spoken  low  and  sorrowfully  and  without  a  gesture,  and 
he  looked  up  with  his  large  meek  eyes  into  the  boy's  face  — 
oh,  so  pleadingly !  Poor  Willard's  heart  had  been  swelling 
until  his  bosom  seemed  hardly  large  enough  to  contain  it,  but 
this  last  appeal  was  too  much ;  and,  with  uncontrollable  sob 
bings,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  neck  of  his  dumb  favorite, 
and  clung  to  him  as  though  he  had  no  other  associate  or  friend 
on  earth.  And  he  had  no  other  now.  Poor  Willard !  For 
awhile  the  wanderer  sobbed  on  in  utter  abandonment ;  the 
dog  now  thrusting  his  nose  into  his  bosom,  now  licking  his 
hands  and  face,  and  striving  by  such  mute  eloquence  to  win 
him  from  his  grief,  whatever  might  have  occasioned  it.  At 
last  the  youth  mastered  the  emotion,  and  with  trembling  lip 
and  swimming  eye  stood  again  upon  his  feet. 

"Go  home,  Rover  —  go!  Go,  Rover!  Rascal!  down! 
down !  go  home  !  " 

The  dog,  at  the  first  command,  given  falteringly,  had 
sprung  again  to  his  master's  shoulders,  wagging  his  tail,  as 
though  to  congratulate  him  on  his  restored  calmness.  But  at 


72  WILLARD    LAWSON. 

the  last  words,  spoken  authoritatively,  he  crouched  at  his  feet, 
whining  piteously,  and  looking  up  to  his  face  with  the  most 
beseeching  fondness.  If  the  eyes  be  the  mirror  of  the  soul, 
what  a  soul  some  brute  animals  must  have  !  Willard  turned 
his  head  from  their  chidnig,  appealing  gaze,  and  choked  down 
the  heart  that  was  springing  to  his  throat,  while,  in  a  louder 
and  still  more  commanding  tone,  he  exclaimed,  pointing  with 
his  finger  and  stamping  with  his  foot,  "  Back,  Rover !  Go 
home ! " 

The  dog  only  lowered  his  head  quite  to  the  dust,  and 
whined  more  piteously  than  before.  Perhaps  Willard  was 
afraid  to  trust  his  voice  again,  but  he  certainly  was  resolved 
on  making  the  animal  obey  him.  Taking  a  knife  from  his 
pocket,  he  proceeded,  not  very  deliberately,  to  a  tree  which 
drooped  its  heavy  branches  over  the  stone  wall  by  the  way 
side.  The  dog  did  not  move,  but  his  large,  pitiful  eyes  fol 
lowed  his  young  master  to  the  tree,  and  watched  him.  with  a 
look  of  meek  sorrow  while  he  cut  a  limb  from  it  and  hastily 
trimmed  away  the  leaves.  But  —  as  he  returned!  Willard 
was  within  a  yard  of  his  mutely  eloquent  friend,  when  the 
dog  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  comprehend  his  intent;  and  with 
a  sharp,  piercing  cry,  made  up  of  more  emotions  than  often 
swell  in  a  human  bosom  —  a  cry  of  intense,  heart-crushing 
anguish — he  leaped  the  fence  and  bounded  away.  Willard 
watched  him ;  not  with  tears  now,  for  there  was  something 
horrifying  in  what  he  had  done,  but  with  a  kind  of  awe- 
stricken  fear,  until  he  reached  the  little  bridge  which  had  been 
thrown  over  the  creek  in  the  pasture.  Here  the  dog  for  the  first 
time  relaxed  his  speed,  turned  about,  and  stretching  his  neck, 
ominously,  in  the  direction  in  which  Willard  stood,  sent  forth 
a  long,  dismal  howl.  Howl  after  howl  —  howl  after  howl  — 
prolonged  —  terrible !  And  the  boy,  putting  his  fingers  to 
his  ears,  ran  with  all  his  speed,  till  he  had  left  the  hill  between 
himself  and  his  home.  Pause  once  more,  and  bethink  thee, 
Willard !  Perchance,  that  far-oflfhowl,  dying  now  in  the  dis 
tance,  is  warning  thee  of  coming  evil.  Pause,  and  think  ! 

As  Willard  hurried  on,  though  he  passed  familiar  farm- 


WILLARD   LAWSON.  73 

houses,  bidding  adieu  to  the  scenes  of  boyhood,  perhaps  for 
ever,  a  change  gradually  came  over  him ;  for  the  clear,  fresh 
air  of  morning  brushed  his  cheek  and  cooled  his  forehead 
giving  courage  to  his  heart ;  and  the  brisk  motion  quickened 
his  blood  and  took  some  of  the  pain  from  his  pulse-throbs. 
By  degrees  his  thoughts  passed  over  from  the  things  he  was 
leaving,  to  the  future ;  and  he  went  on,  whistling  "  A  life  on 
the  ocean  wave,"  and  carelessly  switching  the  thistles  and 
May-blossoms  with  the  stick  which  he  had  cut  for  Rover. 


CHAPTER   II. A   STRANGER. 

Willard  had  been  wandering  by  the  wharf  all  day,  passing 
from  one  vessel  to  another,  talking  with  seamen  and  laying 
plans  for  the  future  with  apparent  boldness ;  but,  spite  of  all 
this,  there  was  a  desolate  feeling  at  his  heart,  which  was  fast 
writing  itself  in  unboyish  characters  of  thought  upon  his  face. 
He  still  had  with  him  the  stick  which  he  brought  from  Law- 
son  farm ;  and  carried  suspended  from  it  a  small  bundle  of 
things  which  he  had  taken  the  forethought  to  tie  up  in  a 
pocket  handkerchief  on  the  morning  he  left  home.  This, 
with  a  very  scanty  purse,  was  all  he  had  on  earth ;  neither 
money,  nor  goods,  nor  friends.  But  he  possessed  that  which 
was  worse  for  him,  unguided  as  he  was,  than  his  wants  —  a 
bold,  impulsive  nature,  self-confidence  and  an  undoubting 
trust  in  others,  warmth  and  energy  and  gayety,  and  a  desire 
to  see  everything  and  test  everything ;  while,  just  at  this 
moment,  when  he  most  needed  it,  a  hinge  was  loosened  in  his 
strong  heart.  He  wandered  alone  to  a  back  street,  dark,  nar 
row  and  filthy,  for  he  was  taking  his  first  lesson  in  economy, 
and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  door  of  an  alehouse. 
Strange  beings  were  passing  by.  The  drunkard  and  the 
pauper,  the  undisguised  miserable  and  the  degraded  mirthful  in 
their  misery,  the  needy  beggar  and  the  beggar  by  profession, 
all  went  trooping  on ;  varied  only  now  and  then  by  a  face 
which  had  some  tokens  of  decency  in  it,  to  break  up  the  dis 
gusting  monotony.  After  awhile  men  began  to  gather  in  the 

VOL.  n.  7 


74  WILLARD    LAWSON. 

alehouse,  for  night  came  creeping  on.  And  such  men !  Wil- 
lard  had  never  dreamed  of  their  like  before.  There  were 
oaths  and  blasphemies,  and  brutal  jests  and  coarse  loud  peals 
of  laughter,  and  wrangling,  with  now  and  then  an  expostula 
tion  that  had  but  little  gentleness  about  it ;  and  as  Willard 
listened,  he  moved  uneasily  on  his  bench  and  looked  about 
him  with  some  anxiety,  for  his  prospects  for  the  night  were 
anything  but  agreeable.  But  should  he  be  coward  enough  to 
change  his  quarters  ?  "Willard  was  but  a  boy,  and  boys  have 
some  super-refined  notions  of  courage.  He  stretched  him 
self  upon  the  bench,  placing  his  little  bundle  under  his  head. 
He  had  not  been  in  this  position  long  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  another  new-comer.  The  stranger  was  tall  and 
broad-shouldered  —  magnificently  made ;  and  as  he  stept  into 
the  light  beyond  the  doorway,  Willard  raised  his  head  and 
looked  after  him  admiringly.  Was  it  some  brigand  chief, 
some  proud  and  powerful  sea-robber,  or  could  it  be  a  mere 
common  man  like  the  others  there,  smoking  and  drink 
ing  and  swearing  ?  He  could  not  be  a  good  man,  for  Wil 
lard  knew  that  this  was  no  place  for  the  good.  And  yet  he 
did  not  look  like  one  given  to  vicious  habits  or  evil  passions. 
His  rich,  wavy  hair  was  slightly  grizzled,  but  it  had  evidently 
been  touched  by  no  pencil  more  objectionable  than  Time  car 
ries  ;  his  complexion  was  pale  and  delicate,  quite  unlike  that 
of  a  sea-robber ;  and  his  soft  blue  eye  was  full  of  mildness 
and  love.  He  wore  a  stiff,  military-looking  coat,  buttoned 
closely  to  the  chin,  displaying  his  strong  muscular  propor 
tions  to  the  best  advantage,  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  heavy 
walking-stick,  headed  with  silver.  Willard  could  not  discover 
in  what  the  stranger's  pec  uliarity  either  of  dress  or  manner 
consisted,  and  yet  there  w  is  a  peculiarity  which  attracted  the 
attention  of  all  the  bar-room  loungers.  He  spoke  a  word  or 
two  to  those  nearest  him  on  entering,  in  a  voice  of  singular 
richness  and  energy ;  and  then  drawing  back  a  little  from  the 
company,  placed  himself  upon  a  settle,  just  inside  the  door. 
He  was  evidently  a  stranger  to  the  rest  of  the  company  as  to 
Willard ;  and  although  he  seemed  disinclined  to  join  in  their 


VVILLARD    LAWSON.  75 

mirth,  his  eye  wandered  from  one  to  another  with  an  inter 
ested  kind  of  curiosity,  which  puzzled  our  young  friend  not  a 
little.  Was  there  any  affinity  existing  between  the  spirit  of 
the  stranger  and  a  scene  like  this  ?  There  was  a  nobleness  in 
his  countenance  and  a  majesty  in  his  air,  which  belonged  to 
no  common  person  —  an  arch-angel  fallen,  perhaps,  for,  if 
not  fallen,  why  should  he  be  there  among  the  vicious  and 
degraded?  Willard  watched  him  wonderingly,  and  as  he 
watched,  the  heads  within  began  to  dance  together,  the  night- 
lamps  joined  them,  and  finally  the  stars,  and  at  last  the  boy's 
dull  eyes  closed  entirely,  and  his  chin  rested  upon  his  shirt- 
collar.  Willard  was  tired  and  sleepy  that  night.  How  long 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  dream-spirits  he  did  not  know;  but 
when  he  awoke,  a  voice  of  singular  kindness,  close  to  his  ear, 
remarked,  "  You  have  slept  soundly,  my  son." 

"  I  have  had  an  unusual  pillow,"  returned  Willard,  smiling, 
and  raising  his  head  from  the  shoulder  where  it  had  rested, 
"  I  trust  I  may  not  have  hugged  it  too  long  for  its  owner's 
convenience." 

"  That  is  its  owner's  care.  It  was  presented  unasked,  and 
might  have  been  reclaimed  at  any  moment.  But,  surely," 
added  the  stranger,  in  a  lower  tone,  "you  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  resorting  to  such  a  place  as  this  ?  " 

"  I  might  return  the  compliment,"  answered  Willard,  laugh 
ing,  "  for  I  take  your  remark  as  something  of  a  compliment ; 
I  wondered  myself  to  sleep  upon  the  subject." 

"  And  what  did  you  decide  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  have  met  with  better  success  in  my  study.  You  are  a 
stranger." 

"Not  quite  a  companion  for  men  like  those?  —  thank 
you." 

"  You  are  far  from  home,  for  the  first  time  ?  " 

"  The  first  time,"  returned  Willard,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  have  not  always  been  happy  in  that  home  ?  " 

"  There  's  no  great  skill  in  that — who  has  ?" 

"  You  left  it  in  anger," 


76  WILLARD  LAWSON. 

"  Go  on,  wizard." 

"  You  know  you  have  taken  a  false  step,  and  feel  much 
regret  ;  but  you  are  too  proud  to  return." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  sorry  I  have  done  it.  I  am  not  sorry 
•  —  I  wouldn't  go  back  for  the  world  !" 

"  Rover  misses  you." 

Willard  started,  and  turned  slightly  pale. 

"  And  your  sister  Sophy  -  " 

"  Ha  !  I  believe  you  are  the  deuce,  man." 

"  Not  quite,  my  son  ;  your  guess  has  even  less  courtesy  in 
it  than  mine,  when  I  dub  you  runaway." 

"  Who  and  what  are  you  that  you  should  know  so  much 
of  me  —  know  the  names  of  Sophy  and  Rover  ?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  more  —  you  have  a  desire  to  go  to  sea." 

"  Right,  but  you  must  have  dealings  with  his  black  ma- 


"  And  more."  Here  the  stranger  took  the  youth's  hand 
affectionately  in  his,  and  looked  into  his  face  with  solemn 
earnestness.  "I  can  tell  you  more,  my  son;  and  I  am  no 
magician  to  discover  it.  I  see  it  written  upon  your  forehead  ; 
I  see  it  beaming  in  your  eye.  God  has  done  that  for  you 
which  may  make  you  among  men  like  yonder  star  among 
these  feeble  lamp-lights.  He  has  gifted  you  with  a  quick, 
powerful  intellect,  and  a  warm,  earnest  heart  ;  but  that  power 
may  be  degraded  and  spend  itself  on  trifles  ;  that  warmth  may 
be  perverted.  The  gallant  craft  you  are  about  to  launch  upon 
the  broad  ocean  of  the  world,  (pardon  me,  my  son,)  with  tender 
sails  and  warped  rudder,  is  a  thing  too  noble  to  subject  to 
such  a  risk.  If  you  were  an  older  sailor  you  would  make 
better  preparations  for  your  voyage.  No,  I  am  laying  no 
unusual  weakness  to  your  charge.  I  see  the  fire  in  your  eye  ; 
I  read  strength  of  purpose  on  that  bold  brow,  and  I  know  what 
a  strong  will  may  enable  you  to  do.  But  beware,  my  son  ! 
as  noble  vessels  as  yours  have  been  wrecked  ;  as  strong  minds 
have  yielded  the  jewel  of  intellect  —  integrity,  unswerving 
principle  ;  hearts  as  true  as  yours  have  blackened  under  the 
finger  of  pollution.  What  talisman  have  you  to  bear  you 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  77 

safely  through?  There  was  a  time,  I  think — there  must 
have  been  a  time  when  you  prayed,  '  lead  us  not  into  tempta 
tion  ;'  and  now  you  are  voluntarily  walking  in  the  way  of  it. 
Do  I  not  tell  you  truth,  my  son  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  asked  Willard,  with  a  quivering  lip. 

"  First  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  your  troubles  and  your 
plans." 

"  You  seem  to  be  pretty  well  informed  on  that  subject 
already." 

"  I  never  saw  you,  nor  heard  of  you  till  this  evening." 

"  How,  then,  do  you  know  so  much  about  me  ?" 

"  Your  face  is  just  now  strangely  full  of  thought — you  look 
innocent — you  are  respectably  clad — you  carry  a  bundle  on 
your  walking-stick — you  are  in  a  place  given  up  to  the  vicious 
— you  go  to  sleep  unsuspectingly  where  any  but  a  stranger 
would  feel  pretty  sure  of  having  his  pocket  picked — you  mur 
mur  names  in  your  sleep — your  speech  on  awaking  is  intelli 
gent  ;  am  I  a  wizard  ?  " 

"  You  are  observing." 

"  I  came  here  to  observe ;  and  shall  be  but  too  happy  if  I 
can  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  I  thank  you,  but  I  believe  my  path  is  pretty  plain  before 
me.  I  have  had  conversation  with  a  shipmaster  to-day,  and 
have  very  nearly  enlisted  as  a  sailor.  You  are  very  kind ; 
but,  notwithstanding  your  warning,  I  have  a  fancy  that  he 
who  cannot  preserve  purity  of  mind  and  morals  on  the  water, 
would  scarce  do  it  on  the  land." 

"  Very  true,  my  son.  Is  it  your  intention  to  go  out  as  a 
common  sailor?" 

"  Yes,  I  begin  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  I  have  no  friends 
to  help  me  to  a  better  berth." 

"  Your  associates  then  must  necessarily  be  men  who,  if  not 
vicious,  are  ignorant — you  will  have  no  change  of  companion 
ship,  nothing  to  elevate  your  thoughts  and  feelings — all  a 
dark,  degraded  level  about  you,  and  you  must  be  more  than 
human  not  to  sink  to  it.  You  are  young,  too,  and  do  not  yet 

VOL.  n.  7^ 


78  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

understand  your  capabilities,  because  you  have  not  tested 
them.  You  should  be  thoroughly  educated " 

"  I  do  not  like  study,  sir." 

"  Scarce  an  excuse  for  a  man,  my  son.  If  the  bird  should 
chance  not  to  like  the  air,  we  might  give  it  to  some  little  girl 
to  enslave,  or  if  the  fish  should  find  the  water  disagreeable, 
we  should  scarce  take  the  trouble  to  reason  with  it — let  the 
foolish  thing  die ;  but  the  immortal  mind  is  not  a  bird  or  a 
fish,  to  be  granted  its  whim  and  perish.  The  question  is  not 
what  you  fancy,  but  what  you  need.  Nothing  worth  having 
flies  to  you  and  alights  upon  your  hand ;  you  must  seek,  dig, 
dig,  dig,  and  the  '  hid  treasure,'  when  found,  will  be  worth  a 
thousand  worlds  to  you.  There  is  something  glorious,  too,  in 
the  labor.  You  commence  in  this  world  a  process  which  is 
to  be  carried  on  hereafter  under  the  eyes  of  angels  —  which 
is  to  make  the  bliss  of  eternity.  Think  of  the  great,  undying, 
God-like  mind  within  you,  lying  all  uncultivated,,  its  capaci 
ties  undeveloped,  its  powers  unimproved,  its  affinity  to  the 
Deity  unrecognized — benefiting  no  one,  influencing  no  one, 
lost  like  rubbish  among  the  things  that  perish  —  a  chasm  in 
the  great  intellectual  unity,  a  monster  of  ingratitude  to  the 
God  who  endowed  it,  and  a  curse  to  itself.  You  cannot  walk 
through  the  world  as  the  fool  walks,  and  be  happy ;  for  there 
is  that  within  you  which  demands  your  life-long  care,  and  if 
you  neglect  it — listen  to  me,  my  son,  believe  me,  for  I  have 
seen  more  years  and  more  men  than  you  have,  and  I  have 
made  natures  like  yours  my  study — if  you  neglect  it,  you 
may  almost  as  well  turn  at  once  to  yonder  bar  and  find  your 
associates  there.  You  cannot  satisfy  the  yearning  of  the  death 
less  spirit  for  the  food  it  covets,  with  husks  ;  it  will  not  be  toyed 
with  ;  and  when,  starved,  enslaved,  trampled  on,  its  sharp  cry 
comes  to  your  ear,  you  will  drown  it  as  —  those  men  drown  it. 
Look  !  that  one  with  the  scar  across  the  brow,  and  the  fright 
ful  scowl  had — has  no  common  mind — you  will  discover  it 
for  yourself  if  you  watch  his  actions  and  his  words.  On  the 
table  yonder,  degrading  himself  lower  than  any  mountebank 


WILLARD   LAWSON.  79 

is  one  made  to  love  beauty  and  harmony — a  poet  by  nature, 
a  harlequin  by  prostitution.'' 

"  You  seem  to  know  them  well,"  remarked  Willard,  throw 
ing  a  scrutinizing  glance  on  his  monitor. 

"  As  I  know  you ;  I  have  never  met  them  before." 

"  I  had  been  looking  at  them  before  you  came  in,  and  I 
thought  them  either  fools  or  madmen ;  there  seems  to  be  no 
reason  either  in  their  actions  or  words." 

"  They  are  both  ;  but  not  half  as  mad  as  you  are  now  to  run 
voluntarily  into  the  same  danger." 

Willard  drew  himself  up.  "  I  have  reason  to  be  highly 
nattered,  sir,  with  your  opinion  of  my  strength  of  character 
and  purity  of  principle." 

The  stranger  laid  his  hand  soothingly  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  half-angry  youth,  which  lowered  beneath  its  magnetic 
touch,  until  he  stood  smiling  beside  him  as  before.  "  Have 
you  more  than  human  strength,  my  son  ?  There  is  an  angel 
hovering  over  your  heart  I  know ;  but  is  there  one  standing  at 
its  door  with  a  naming  sword  to  keep  out  evil  ?  Is  it  chained 
fast  that  it  cannot  go  into  error  ?  Are  you  stronger  than  the 
Son  of  the  Morning,  and  purer  than  he,  that  you  cannot  fall  ? 
Does  none  of  the  original  sin  of  our  ruined  natures  cleave  to 
you,  and  have  you  added  nothing  thereto  ?  A  Redeemer  died 
for  you ;  but  did  he  make  it  impossible  for  you  to  sin  ?  or  was 
it  not  this  same  Holy  One  who  said,  '  Watch  and  pray,  lest 
you  enter  into  temptation  ? '  Think  of  the  indignant  exclama 
tion  of  one  as  pure-hearted  and  unsuspecting  as  you  are : 
4  What !  dost  thou  think  thy  servant  a  dog  that  he  should  do 
this  great  thing  ? '  And  what  things  did  he  not  do  ?  What 
crime  too  black  for  him  afterwards  ?  There  was  a  time,  I 
doubt  not,  when  yonder  harlequin  would  have  been  indignant 
had  his  present  degradation  but  been  hinted  at.  But  listen  to 
him  now.  That  was  a  beautiful  sentiment  to  drop  from  such 
.ips — but  how  distorted — and  finished  with  an  oath — hear 
him.  There  was  a  time  when  he  was  innocent  and  self-con 
fident,  and  I  am  sure  not  many  years  ago.  Wait  me  here 
while  I  recall  those  days.  If  I  can  but  lay  my  finger  on  the 


80  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

right  chord,  I  may  produce  a  vibration  which  will  call  up 
some  well-nigh  forgotten  strain  of  better  days,  and  do  him 
good." 

The  stranger  stepped  to  the  table,  where  a  light-haired,  fair- 
faced,  lithe  young  man  was  dancing  and  singing  songs,  and 
performing  various  feats  of  buffoonery  for  the  amusement  of 
the  boisterous  company  about  him." 

"  Henry  Crayton,  I  believe  !" 

"  Ah  !  '  what 's  in  a  name  ? '  *  Avoid  ye  !  get  thee  behind 
me  ! '  'Do  you  squinny  at  me  ? ' 

'  When  the  wine-cup  is  smiling  before  us, 
And  we  pledge  round  to  hearts  that  are  true,  boys,  true, 
Remember  your  part 's  to  encore  us  ; 
So  here 's  for  a  hulabuloo  —  loo,  loo,  loo, 
So  here 's  for  —  here  's  for — ' 

Where  are  your  voices,  boys  ?  Oh,  there  is  the  big  shadow 
yet — out  with  it,  man !" 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you." 

"  Then  deliver  thyself,  an'  thou  art  not  breathless  with  the 
weighty  matter,  my  little  foot-page.  Speak  on ;  these  are  all 
our  right  loyal  subjects,  and  we  have  no  secrets  from  their 
ears." 

"  I  had  better  wait  your  leisure,"  replied  the  stranger,  turn 
ing  away. 

"  Leisure  !  here 's  for  you,  then.  I  come  —  I  come  !"  and, 
plunging  from  the  table,  young  Crayton  alighted  on  his  hands, 
turned  a  somerset,  cleared  himself  of  the  applauding  crowd, 
and  joined  the  tall  stranger  on  the  portico. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  apologize  for  interrupting  your  agreeable 
amusement,"  Willard  heard  his  new  friend  remark. 

"  Agreeable !  Well,  there  is  laughing  and  the  hours  go 
by — yes,  it  is  agreeable.  You  had  an  errand." 

"  My  message  was  a  petition." 

"  You  had  better  have  presented  it  then  while  I  was  on  my 
throne.  Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  It  is  a  solemn  one." 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  81 

"  Well,  speak,  though  I  have  no  liking  for  solemn  things," 
answered  the  half-sobered  youth, 

'  Let 's  laugh  and  be  merry, 
For  old  Charon's  ferry, 
It » 

I  beg  your  pardon,  speak  on." 

"  An  angel  once  dwelt  in  your  heart,  and  he  would  fain 
come  back  again.  Innocence  is  the  lost  one's  name  —  oh, 
take  her  to  your  bosom,  and  with  her  she  will  bring  a  sister 
—  Peace."  Willard  did  not  hear  the  reply,  but  he  thought  it 
was  a  scoff,  and  he  wondered  if  it  were  possible  for  him  ever 
to  become  so  degraded.  The  two  men  still  pursued  their 
walk  up  and  down  the  portico,  their  voices  gradually  growing 
lower  and  more  earnest,  till  not  a  single  word  could  be  dis 
tinguished.  At  last  they  parted.  The  younger  walked  away 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  stranger  monitor  returned  to  the 
waiting  Willard. 

"  Poor  fellow !  He  is  very  miserable,  for  he  is  as  sensitive 
concerning  his  degradation  as  though  it  were  not  his  own 
work.  He  was  not  sorry  to  find  sympathy  and  encourage 
ment,  and  I  have  left  him  with  an  arrow  in  his  heart  which 
he  may  turn  to  balm.  Heaven  help  him  !  He  has  promised 
to  come  to  me  in  the  morning  for  employment.  If  he  should, 
I  will  do  the  best  I  can  for  him,  and  I  think  some  friends  that 
I  have  in  town  would  second  my  endeavors." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  he  will  keep  his  promise  ?  " 

"  It  is  doubtful.  He  might  reform,  but  it  is  hard  to  retread 
steps  of  darkness  and  bitterness ;  better  commence  aright,  my 
Bon." 

Willard  wished  himself  at  home  again,  and  almost  thought 
that  he  would  submit  to  his  father's  control,  (tyranny  he  named 
it,)  in  order  to  avoid  the  fearful  hazard  of  his  present  position. 

"  I  would  commence  aright,"  he  began,  falteringly,  "  I  would 
commence  aright — but — 1  cannot  go  back  to  Lawson  farm. 
There  is  no  one  to  guide  me  here,  no  one  to  advise  me ;  what 
shall  I  do?" 


82  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

"  And  why  not  go  back,  my  son  ? " 

"  I  am  not  happy  there  —  I  cannot  be.  If  there  were  any 
one  to  talk  to  me  as  you  do,  to  awaken  me  to  a  consciousness 
of  my  own  powers,  and  teach  me  to  cultivate  and  improve 
them,  I  might  find  pleasure  in  that ;  but  I  shall  go  away  and 
forget  what  you  have  told  me,  and  I  cannot  do  right  when  I 
am  unhappy.  No,  I  never  will  go  back  to  Lawson  farm." 

"  Go  with  me  then,  will  you  not?" 

"Where?"' 

"  To  —  to  complete  your  education,  to  fit  yourself  for  use 
fulness  in  the  sphere  which  to-day  you  may  choose ;  to-mor 
row  will  be  lost  to  you.  Go  with  me,  my  son,  and  you  never 
will  regret  this  most  important  decision  of  your  life." 

"  How  can  I  go  ?  I  am  but  one  remove  from  beggary, 
though  I  decline  the  profession,  in  favor  of  the  'bounding  bil 
low.'  Here  is  my  wardrobe  in  this  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
here  my  purse — just  eighty-nine  cents  in  it  —  a  weighty  cap 
ital  with  my  expectations !  I  have  nothing  else  in  the  wide 
world." 

"  You  have  a  strong  hand  and  a  strong  intellect.  Improve 
well  what  you  have,  and  I  will  make  the  rest  easy  for  you." 

"  Who  then  are  you  ? " 

The  stranger  pulled  a  card  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in 
the  hand  of  the  youth,  who  stepped  nearer  the  light  to  read  it. 
In  a  moment  he  returned,  his  eye  moist  and  his  voice  tremu 
lous. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  reason 
so  with  my  waywardness,  and  I  commit  myself,  without  ques 
tion,  to  your  guidance;  for  your  voice  has  reached  to  my 
inmost  spirit,  and  roused  aspirations  which  might  have  slum 
bered  forever." 

"You  will  go  with  me,  then  ? " 

"  I  will.  I  dare  not  refuse.  It  almost  seems  to  me  that 
you  have  been  sent  here,  in  this  hour  of  danger,  by  my  dead 
mother." 

"  Perhaps ;  the  spirits  that  have  gone  home  before  do  watch 
over  us,  my  son." 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  83 

CHAPTER   III. THE    ORATOR. 

AN  immense  concourse  of  the  proudest  intellects  our  state 

can  boast,  had  assembled  at .     There  was  a  hush  like 

the  pulseless  silence  of  the  tomb ;  for  the  inspiration  of  a 
mighty  spirit  had  passed  over  them ;  and  each  rapt  listener 
suspended  his  breathing,  lest  even  that  should  drown  some 
tone  replete  with  the  eloquence  of  the  mighty  indwelling 
spirit.  The  voice  of  the  speaker  was  one  well  known  in  the 
council-hall,  one  to  which  senators  had  listened  with  rever 
ence,  one  which  wisdom  honored  and  philanthropy  had  cause 
to  bless.  And  he  now  spoke  eloquently  and  feelingly  upon  a 
subject,  which  it  was  evident  interested  him  beyond  measure 
—  the  dispersion  of  the  clouds  from  the  intellectual  horizon 
of  the  human  race  ;  and  the  full,  steady  light,  flooding  every 
thing  in  its  way,  which  was  spreading  itself  from  zenith  to 
nadir.  He  spoke  of  the  might  of  mind  even  in  its  clay  prison ; 
of  the  man  of  the  wise  thought  beside  the  man  of  the  strong 
arm ;  of  the  little  voice  which  comes  up  from  the  lone  phi 
losopher's  cell  to  shake  the  broad  earth  with  its  thunders ;  and 
of  the  foolish  one,  who  goes  out  among  his  fellows,  never 
knowing  nor  making  it  known  that  he  carries  more  than  the 
wealth  of  an  empire  in  his  bosom.  He  went  back  to  the 
earth's  midnight,  and  plunged  into  the  closet  of  the  alchymist 
and  the  cell  of  the  monk,  where  genius  wrestled  with  supersti 
tion,  in  the  dense  darkness,  and  where  knowledge  long  hid 
her  mourning  head  ;  and  he  brought  up  from  each  a  libation 
to  pour  upon  the  altar  of  intellectual  democracy.  He  pointed 
to  the  lone  stars  that  formerly  glittered,  wonders  to  gaze  at, 
in  the  wide  heaven  of  literary  fame ;  and  then  he  suddenly 
unrolled  a  new  firmament,  all  spangled  over  with  orbs  full  of 
brilliancy  and  beauty,  but  so  lost  in  the  universal  light  as  to 
be  scarce  discoverable.  And  with  what  heart- felt  eloquence 
he  hailed  the  glorious  morning !  Ah !  he  must  have  been 
standing  beneath  a  sun  of  his  own,  to  be  so  enraptured  with 
the  spirit- warming  effulgence ;  for  there  are  those  who  even 
now  see  nothing  but  feeble  rush-lights,  glimmering  in  the 


84  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

darkness ;  who  long  for  the  olden  time,  when  but  one  star 
blazed  aloft  to  light  a  century,  and  after  its  exit  the  world 
slumbered  on,  till  another  came,  darting  its  wild  coruscations 
athwart  the  gloom  with  startling  fitfulness.  He  was  not  a 
mere  orator,  he  was  an  artist,  a  Pygmalion,  and  his  creations 
breathed  —  glowed — burned ;  his  Promethean  hand  had  stolen 
the  sacred  fire,  and  he  scattered  it  with  a  wild  profusion,  which 
left  a  spark  on  every  heart  —  not  to  kindle  passion,  but  to 
burn  away  the  dross,  and  leave  the  godlike  spirit  unalloyed, 
in  unshackled  freedom.  He  ceased,  and  that  vast  concourse 
arose  and  walked  away  in  subdued  silence.  Each  mind, 
however  deeply  buried  in  frivolities,  flung  open  its  portals  to 
thought,  and  thought  is  the  angel  which,  once  admitted,  rec 
tifies  and  renovates  the  whole  inner  being. 

Among  those  who  listened  to  the  thrilling  eloquence  of  the 
gifted  orator  was  a  noble-browed,  mild-eyed  old  man,  with 
locks  of  snow,  and  a  face  whose  expression  combined  benevo 
lence  with  native  dignity.  His  broad  chest  heaved  with  emo 
tion  while  he  listened ;  and,  when  the  eyes  of  others  kindled 
with  enthusiasm,  his  closed  over  the  warm  tears  which 
gushed  up  from  a  fountain  stirred  in  his  bosom  only ;  for  he 
knew  that  from  a  little  seed  which  he  once  held  between  his 
own  fingers,  sprang  all  those  sentiments  so  fraught  with  life, 
so  redolent  with  wisdom  and  purity.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
had  grasped  hands  —  the  noble  old  man,  and  the  son  of  his 
better  nature.  They  met  not  with  outward  caressings,  but 
with  a  close  clasping  of  the  spirit  which  is  sometimes  granted 
on  this  side  of  bliss,  and  a  more  than  womanly  gush  of  ten 
derness  quivering  in  either  voice ;  for  it  is  a  gross  wisdom 
which  claims  not  love  for  its  twin. 

Go  on,  Willard  Lawson  !  gather  thy  jewels  about  thee,  as 
thou  art  gathering  them  now ;  make  thine  own  setting  one  of 
unsurpassed  glory ;  for  soon  a  brow  thou  lovest  will  turn  from 
earth  to  be  adorned  in  heaven ;  and  on  that  noble  brow  the 
jeweLoJ'  thine  own  bright  spirit  will  glitter. 


85 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON. 

"  WHEREAWAY,  Jem  ?  " 

"  Up  country." 

"  Aha  !     What 's  in  the  wind  ? " 

"  A  raise." 

"As  how?" 

"  Honor  bright  ? " 

"  Honor  bright." 

"Fact  is,  Tom,  the  New  Yorkers  are  purse-proud  —  no 
money  to  be  had  for  love,  even.  All  wrong  —  money  buys 
love,  why  not  love  money  ?  A 'n't  I  a  philosopher,  Tom?" 

"  Very  good  for  a  beginning." 

"Well,  I  must  practise  a  little,  you  see  —  nothing  like 
practice ;  and  no  knowing  how  soon  I  may  be  drawn  out. 
Country  belles,  I  've  heard  say,  are  the  deuce-and-all  at  phi 
losophy." 

"  And  who  is  to  have  the  honor  of  buying  the  ninety-ninth 
part  of  some  hitherto  hidden  corner  of  Jem  Fletcher's  heart, 
(all  there  is  left,)  and  what's  the  bid?" 

"  No  funning,  Tom ;  I'm  in  sober  earnest  this  time.  That 
is,  what  with  the  billet-doux  from  trades-people,  and  the  lack 
of  them  from  heiresses,  I  am  getting/eeiZe,  very.  Pulse  low, 
(alias  purse,)  no  rest,  (worried  by  bills  a  mile  long  every  day,) 
can't  sleep  o'  nights,  (for  want  of  a  bed,)  appetite  shockingly 
irregular,  (ravenous  when  somebody  else  foots  the  bill,)  — 
tell  ye  what  it  is,  Tom,  I'm  a  case,  that's  clear.  Nothing 
will  do  but  change  of  scene  —  country  air,  and  country  exer 
cise  —  the  doctors  would  recommend  it,  I  know.  If  I  don't 
get  better,  they  '11  smother  me  with  duns  —  I  shall  be  regu 
larly  Burked  —  chopped  into  minced  meat  for  the  benefit  of 
Shears  &  Co.  Sad,  isn't  it?" 

"  Very.     Poor  Jem  Fletcher  ! " 

VOL.  IT.  8 


86  A   CASE    OF   LUNACY   NOT   UNCOMMON. 

"  Tho't  the  sou]  of  ye  would  melt  a  little.  But  don't  quite 
break  your  heart ;  I  shall  take  a  dose  of  the  country  and  come 
out  new.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  must  serve  an  apprenticeship, 
and  my  Lahan  will  outdo  his  prototype ;  he  will  make  me 
spin  every  thought  that  is  in  me  into  gold  threads  to  match  the 
yellow-boys  in  his  eel-skin  purse." 

"  That  will  be  oppressive." 

"  So  it  will,  but  I  must  submit." 

"  And  for  lack  of  the  gold,  substitute  the  labor  of  gilding, 
eh?" 

"  Ah !  you  understand,  Tom ;  you  know  all  about  it.  A 
fortune  in  your  eye,  my  boy  ! " 

"  Something  in  that  way,  you  know." 

"Ah,  yes!  'waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes;'  but  take  my 
word  for  it,  Tom,  there's  nothing  like  this  plan  o'  mine. 
Catch  a  bird  with  a  piece  of  money  in  her  mouth,  and  you 
have  birdie  and  all." 

"  Ay,  catch  the  bird." 

"Oh!  that's  nothing.  She's  as  good  as  caught,  now. 
I've  got  a  fortieth  cousin  up  there  in  the  woods,  (Alderbrook 
they  call  the  settlement,)  and  he 's  a  great  man  among  them 
— justice  of  the  peace,  town  clerk,  or  something  or  other. 
Well,  I  believe  he  has  an  inkling  of  the  state  of  my  affairs ; 
and  having  done  pretty  well  in  the  matrimonial-money- 
making  line  himself,  he  just  takes  it  upon  himself  to  advise 
me.  Let  me  see  —  I  have  a  mem.  somewhere.  Deacon  — 
Deacon  —  Palmer,  (I  believe  it  is,)  —  a  hundred  thousand  — 
one  pretty  daughter,  very  pretty,  and  sole  heiress  —  about 
sixteen — bright  eyes  —  dark  hair,  given  to  curling  —  tall  — 
hands  and  feet  —  (dang  it !  not  a  word  about  them !  all  right, 
though,  I  dare  say,)  —  loves  to  queen  it  —  a  little  blue,  and 
wilful  as  Zantippe  !  What  say  to  that,  eh !  Tom  ?  " 

"  No  pulling  hair,  I  hope." 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  better  go  to  the  barber,  Tom,  by  way 
of  a  preventive  ?  " 

"  Time  enough.     You  told  of  an  apprenticeship." 

"  Oh,  ah  !  that 's  the  bitter  pill,  the  drop  too  much,  the  great 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.          87 

sacrifice  that's  to  make  a  martyr  of  me,  Tom.  It  seems  they 
have  got  an  academy  of  learning  up  there.  (When  I  am 
president,  I'll  have  all  such  ruinous  institutions  levelled.) 
James  Fletcher,  A.  B.,  your  servant,  sir,  was  graduated  at  old 
Harvard,  and  he  purposes  assuming  the  duties  and  responsi 
bilities  of  principal  of  that  most  excellent  institution  —  the 
academy  at  Alderbrook,  I  mean." 

"  Capital,  Jem  !  But  no  !  Why  not  dash  out,  play  high, 
and  take  the  fortress  by  glitter  ?  No  danger  of  an  indictment 
for  swindling." 

"  There's  a  papa  in  the  way,  with  an  eye  like  a  hawk. 
No ;  sober  and  intellectual  is  my  cue  —  not  moneyed,  but 
evidently  '  a  rising  young  man.'  Dang  it !  won't  I  rise  ?" 

"  If  you  can.  But  see  !  the  steamer  is  ready  for  putting 
off.  Success  to  ye,  Jem  —  Good-by.J? 

"  Good-by.  Better  try  my  prescription,  eh  ?  Think  on 't 
—  do!" 

Oh  !  what  a  sensation  there  was  in  our  village,  when  it 
was  reported  that  James  Fletcher,  Esq.,  of  New  York  city,  a 
young  gentleman  of  very  brilliant  parts,  and  highly-finished 
education,  was  coming  to  take  charge  of  our  academy ! 
There  was  much  sympathy  for  him,  too ;  for  it  was  rumored 
that  the  exigences  of  the  times  had  deprived  him  of  a  very 
fine  fortune  ;  and,  moreover,  that  he  came  to  us  for  the  sake 
of  giving  his  mind  the  opportunity  to  recover  its  usual  tone 
and  vigor,  after  having  been  nearly  shattered  by  adversity. 
Mr.  Fletcher  arrived  late  of  a  Saturday  evening ;  but  in  the 
ten  minutes  that  elapsed  before  he  disappeared  in  one  of  the 
upper  chambers  of  the  "  Sheaf  and  Sickle,"  he  had  been  seen 
by  half  the  men  of  the  village.  The  next  morning  there  was 
a  great  rush  to  church,  which  must  have  been  anticipated  by 
the  parson ;  for  the  elder  part  of  the  congregation  did  not  fail 
to  observe  that  he  had  taken  unwonted  pains  with  his  dis 
course.  Adeline  Palmer  called  at  our  door,  and,  as  we 
walked  to  church  together,  I  had  a  full  description  of  Mr. 
Fletcher  —  eyes,  hair,  complexion,  bearing,  character,  and 
even  feelings.  The  picture  was  rather  "  taking,"  I  must 


88  A   CASE    OF   LUNACY   NOT   UNCOMMON. 

own ;  but  my  muslin  and  straw  were  "  as  good  as  new, 
then ;  so  I  only  readjusted  the  precious  morsel  of  paste  glit 
tering  in  my  breast-knot,  and  carried  my  parasol  as  daintily 
as  possible.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  Ada  Palmer  was  the 
belle  of  Alderbrook ;  and,  though  it  is  impossible,  in  any  case, 
to  resist  the  desire  to  look  one's  prettiest,  the  vainest  of  us 
never  dreamed  of  being  seen  when  beside  her.  Worse  still,  I 
was  informed  that  Mr.  Fletcher  was  particularly  anxious  to 
board  at  Deacon  Palmer's,  for  the  reason  that  his  love  of 
retirement  and  quiet  might  be  better  gratified  there  than  at 
any  other  house  in  the  village. 

"  And  will  he  ? "  I  inquired,  with  quite  enough  interest. 

"  If  we  can  get  papa  to  consent." 

"  To  think  of  your  having  a  boarder  ! " 

"  You  pity  us,  I  dare  say,  Fan,"  whispered  Ada,  with  a 
very  roguish  twinkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  knowing  look  about  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  that  was  particularly  provoking. 

"  Rather  impertinent,  Miss  Deacon's  daughter,"  thought  I , 
"  I  shall  treasure  that  up  to  measure  back  to  you  one  of  these 
days ;"  but  there  was  no  chance  to  reply,  for  we  had  entered 
the  church  porch  ;  and  so,  with  a  mutual  smile,  and  a  nod  of 
good-natured  defiance,  we  parted.  I  soon  discovered  Mr. 
Fletcher,  for  his  was  the  only  strange  face  there ;  and  he 
evidently  soon  discovered  Ada  Palmer.  Oh !  Ada  was  a  lit 
tle  queen,  and  she  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  on  that  day. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  concede  to  her  her  winnings ;  and 
when,  in  a  fortnight  after,  Mr.  Fletcher  was  reckoned  unfail 
ingly  among  them,  I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  belle  in  the 
whole  village  but  thought  it  was  her  due,  and  yielded  the 
conquest  to  her  with  a  good  grace.  But  we  did  have  rare 
times,  making  Ada  blush,  and  (did  you  ever  observe  that 
awkward  right-angle  which  bashful  consciousness  puts  in  the 
corner  where  the  two  lips  meet  ?)  make  square  mouths.  Eare 
times  had  we  ;  and  it  was  as  good  revenge  as  need  be. 

But  poor  Jem  Fletcher  !  he  was  right  when  he  anticipated 
a  severe  apprenticeship,  for  the  deacon  was  "  a  marvel  of  a 
good  man."  Deacon  Palmer's  right  hand,  holding  his  purse 


A  CASE  OP  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.          89 

within  it,  was  given  to  every  good  enterprise,  whether  for  the 
advancement  of  religion  and  morality,  or  intended  to  promote 
the  secondary  interests  of  the  village  which  acknowledged  him 
its  head.  So  poor  Jem  was  not  only  obliged  to  attend  church 
three  times  every  Sabbath,  and  lectures  of  various  kinds  dur 
ing  the  week,  but  he  must  needs  listen,  with  at  least  pretended 
interest,  to  a  thousand  plans  for  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
the  human  race ;  from  which  weighty  matters,  he  hoped,  as 
he  listened,  at  some  future  day  to  relieve  his  intended  father- 
in-law,  by  taking  the  helm  into  his  own  hand.  The  more 
Jem  saw  of  the  old  gentleman's  generosity,  the  more  sanguine 
became  his  hopes;  and  bright  was  the  picture  his  fancy 
painted,  of  the  time  when  good  Deacon  Palmer  would  no 
longer  be  obliged  to  look  after  wealth  which  he  did  not  know 
how  to  use.  But  Jem's  hardest  apprenticeship  was  not  to 
Laban — it  was  to  Rachel  herself.  Oh  !  such  a  sprite  as  was 
Ada  Palmer !  Proud  as  Juno,  and  mischievous  as  a  whole 
troop  of  those  small  people  they  call  fairies,  headed  by  bright 
Titania's  own  jester.  An 

"  Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian" 

was  she,  with  the  same  "  crimson-threaded  lips,"  and  the  "  silver 
trebled  laughter  "  on  them ;  but  as  dignified  as  a  lady  duchess, 
when  she  chose.  Oh  !  there  was  no  bringing  Ada  to  terms 
till  she  was  ready  to  come  ;  and  sometimes  I  used  to  doubt 
whether  Jem  Fletcher,  though  he  trained  his  eyes,  and  trained 
his  tongue,  and  tuned  his  voice  to  the  tone  of  a  harp  with  a 
die-away  air  on  its  strings,  would  be  able  to  accomplish  it. 
Ada  was  un-read-able,  even  by  us.  Jem,  however,  hoped  on, 
and  with  good  reason,  for  it  was  evident  that  he  had  the  right 
ear  of  both  parents. 

There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  "  Alderbrook  Young 
Ladies'  Temperance  Society,"  and  Mr.  Fletcher  was  unani 
mously  declared  "  the  very  one"  to  deliver  a  fitting  lecture  on 
the  occasion.  Jem  Fletcher  lecture  on  temperance  !  But  no 
matter;  he  had  embarked,  and  must  push  forward  at  all 

VOL.  1L  8* 


90          A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON. 

hazards.  Besides,  what  better  opportunity  could  a  lover  wish 
for  the  display  of  his  eloquence  ?  What  delicate  compliments 
might  he  pay  to  one  under  cover  of  the  whole  !  How  charm 
ingly  would  he  angelize  all  the  fair  teens  at  Alderbrook,  while 
Ada  would  be  thinking  within  herself,  "if  he  holds  all  of  us 
in  such  high  estimation,  what  would  his  idolatry  be  when 
concentrated  ? "  Mr.  Fletcher  delighted  the  ladies  by  consent 
ing  to  address  them ;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  he,  begged  a  week's 
delay,  as  he  would  not  presume  to  rise  before  such  an  assem 
bly  of  wit,  and  beauty,  and  talent,  without  due  preparation. 
The  delay  was  granted,  and  poor  Jem  Fletcher  sat  down 
determinedly  and  perseveringly  to  his  severe  task.  Such 
havoc  as  was  made  among  the  goose  quills  and  foolscap  ! 
Jem's  organ  of  destructiveness  had  never  accomplished  so 
much  since  the  days  of  his  babyhood,  when  newspapers  had 
been  given  him  as  playthings.  But  he  succeeded.  Even  his 
own  fastidious  taste  was  fully  satisfied.  And  what  might  not 
be  expected  of  those  bright  beings  on  the  look-out  for  beauties  ? 
Jem  was  in  raptures.  He  read,  and  re-read  his  address ;  and 
each  time  it  grew  more  strikingly  brilliant,  more  witty,  more 
sweetly  sentimental,  more  gracefully  insinuating — in  short, 
more  decidedly  the  precise  thing  to  bait  the  hook  dropped 
through  a  lady's  ear  into  her  heart.  We  all  expected  won 
ders  of  Mr.  Fletcher ;  and  curiosity,  pushed  back  like  a  bois 
terous  beggar  till  the  latest  moment,  was  ready  for  a  rush. 

"  Ada,  go  up  to  Mr.  Fletcher's  room  and  get  the  newspaper," 
said  the  deacon,  after  the  young  lady  had  donned  bonnet  and 
shawl  to  go  to  the  lecture. 

Ada  seized  my  hand.  "  Come  with  me,  Fan ;  Mr.  Fletcher 
is  down  taking  tea  with  mamma.  He  stayed  out  late  to-night 
—  conning  his  speech,  I  dare  say,"  she  added,  in  a  whisper. 

The  deacon  rang  for  lights,  and  away  went  Ada  and  I  for 
the  newspaper.  Mr.  Fletcher's  hat,  with  his  gloves  beside  it, 
was  upon  the  table  ;  and  upon  a  folded  handkerchief,  like  the 
driven  snow  in  whiteness,  lay  a  little  manuscript  book. 

"Look!  the  lecture,  Fanny !"  said  Ada,  taking  one  cor- 
ner  between  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  elevating  it  above 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.    .      91 

her  head.  "  Now  what  would  you  give  to  see  the  inside 
of  it?" 

"  A  bound  to  the  top  of  the  staircase ;  I  never  could  bear 
to  read  a  manuscript.  But  what  a  very  nice  man  this  Mr. 
Fletcher  of  yours  must  be  !  See  how  carefully  that  bit  of 
blue  riband  is  knotted." 

"  The  very  same  that  he  stole  from  my  work-basket  this 
morning  !  Saucy,  is  n't  it  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  punish 
that  impudence.  Besides,  (between  our  two  selves,  Fan,) 
this  very  correct  Mr.  Fletcher  is  an  arrant  hypocrite  —  I  see 
it  in  his  eyes  and  hear  it  in  his  voice.  He  would  be  far  more 
at  home,  I  dare  say,  singing — 

'  Blame  not  the  bowl  — the  fruitful  bowl,' 

than  saying  pretty  things  for  the  edification  of  us  cold-water- 
ites.  Let 's  punish  his  knavery.  Here,  come  to  the  window 
while  I  untie  this  knot." 

Ada  Palmer's  fingers  shook  as  though  shocked  at  their  own 
naughty  doings,  while  she  loosened  the  blue  riband ;  and  then 
she  slipped  the  inner  sheet  from  it,  and  slid  it  down  behind 
the  sofa. 

"  Now,  if  I  only  had  some  queer  thing  to  substitute.  Look  ! 
there  's  a  sheet  of  note-paper  on  the  table  !  He  has  just  writ 
ten  down  a  page,  and  the  ink  is  hardly  dry  on  it.  Bring  it, 
Fanny — it  is  just  the  size  of  this  —  some  love-note,  I  dare 
say ;  and  we  shall  get  a  blush  from  him,  at  any  rate,  when  he 
opens  to  it.  Think  of  making  him  blush  in  public  !  but  we 
must  be  very  demure  —  it  would  not  do  for  us  to  smile  even, 
or  we  should  be  detected." 

By  the  time  Ada  had  finished  her  caution,  the  sheet  of 
note-paper  was  fastened  snugly  in  the  middle,  and  the  book 
returned  to  its  resting-place  on  the  handkerchief. 

A  more  mellow,  rich-toned  voice,  than  Jem  Fletcher's,  I 
never  heard ;  and,  on  that  evening,  it  was  modulated  to  its 
utmost  capacity  for  melody.  I  had  entirely  forgotten  Ada's 
mischievous  prank,  and  so  had  she,  I  doubt  not,  before  he  had 
turned  over  three  leaves.  The  sentiments,  too,  and  the  happy 


92          A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON. 

mode  of  adorning  them  !  Oh !  Jem  Fletcher  deserved  success 
for  his  industry,  if  not  for  his  honesty  !  Suddenly,  while 
Fletcher's  tongue  was  thrilling  beneath  a  whole  tide  of  elo 
quence,  and  hearts  were  beating,  and  eyes  flashing  before  him, 
he  made  an  abrupt  pause.  Placing  his  right  hand  upon  the 
page,  he  raised  the  other  to  his  eyes  hastily,  as  though  brush 
ing  away  some  intruding  vision — but  no,  it  was  there  yet. 
Jem  tried  his  handkerchief,  but  it  did  no  good.  Something 
had  evidently  planted  itself  before  him  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  see.  He  turned  over  leaf  after  leaf  confusedly,  and  baclf 
again,  while  the  red  blood  seemed  ready  to  burst  from  his 
forehead,  and  we  could  almost  fancy  that  we  saw  his  hair 
raising  itself  in  consternation  above. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  embarrass  him  so  much,"  whispered 
Ada  in  my  ear. 

At  that  moment,  Fletcher's  eye  fell  upon  us,  and  such  an 
eye  !  Mortification,  distress,  anger — everything  painful  was 
there  ;  and  no  doubt  our  blazing  faces,  with  the  attempt  at  a 
smile,  which  we  both  of  us  instinctively  made,  betrayed  the 
whole.  Fletcher  gave  but  one  glance  at  us,  one  at  the  curious 
audience,  now  in  a  buzz  of  wonder ;  and,  snatching  his  hat 
from  the  seat  behind  him,  he  bounded  for  the  door.  The  con 
gregation  was  astounded ;  and  poor  Ada  and  I  trembled  like 
two  leaves  in  a  storm.  Slowly,  and  one  by  one,  the  people 
went  out ;  and  that  night  a  light  was  kept  burning  in  every 
house  for  fear  of  the  mad  tutor. 

"  Do  you  know  what  was  the  matter  with  Mr.  Fletcher  last 
evening  ?  "  inquired  Deacon  Palmer  of  his  daughter,  while  at 
the  breakfast-table.  Ada's  face  took  on  the  hue  of  a  full 
blown  peony.  "  Then  you  have  seen  this  before  ?  "  and  the 
deacon  pulled  from  his  pocket  the  little  book  tied  with  the 
blue  riband. 

.  "I  am  sorry,  papa ;  indeed,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  did  not 
intend  to  mortify  Mr.  Fletcher  so  much  —  I  only  slipped  in 
that  paper  for  a  frolic ;"  and  poor  Ada  actually  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Then  you  have  not  read  it  ?" 


A  CASE  CF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.          93 

"  Oh,  no,  papa  !  you  could  not  think  I  would  be  so  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fletcher  thought  you  had.  I  found  this  by 
the  church-door,  where  he  dropped  it.  If  you  do  not  know 
what  paper  you  slipped  in  for  a  frolic,  you  may  read  it  now." 

Ada's  eyes  grew  larger  and  larger  as  she  perused  the  precious 
document  which  had  turned  Jem  Fletcher  into  a  madman ; 
and  such  a  volley  of  laughter  as  she  closed  it  with,  had  never 
before  burst  even  from  her  merry  heart. 

No  wonder  that  poor  Jem  was  mortified  past  redemption ; 
for  the  note,  which  he  supposed  Ada  had  perused,  gave  a  full 
account  of  his  plans  and  prospects  to  his  friend  Tom ;  and 
closed  with  a  characteristic  eulogium  on  pretty  damsels  in 
general,  and  moneyed  pretty  ones  in  particular. 

Jem  Fletcher  has  never  been  heard  of  since  at  Alderbrook 
and  many  a  good  lady,  to  this  day,  often  expresses  the  hope, 
that  the  poor  dear  young  man  has  found   shelter  in  some 
lunatic  asylum. 


94 


THE  GEEAT  MARCH  HOLIDAY. 

THE  boisterous,  bustling,  blowing,  chilling  month  of  March 
Ugh !  it  makes  me  shiver  to  think  of  it !  Even  its  smiles  are 
undesirable — mud-producers  as  they  are.  But  yet  it  brings, 
like  every  other  part  of  the  year,  its  own  peculiar  pleasures. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  season  of  the  utmost  interest  and  importance  to 
a  large  class,  quite  as  likely  to  supply  us  with  future  states 
men  as  college  walls  or  city  boundaries.  It  is  strange  how 
much,  and  yet  how  little,  we  are  indebted  to  position  and  edu 
cation  for  what  we  afterward  become.  The  pale  student,  with 
his  classic  face,  soul-beaming  eye,  and  graceful  step,  bows 
himself  from  our  presence  on  commencement  day  ;  while  our 
hopes  and  good  wishes  follow  him  on  what  we  believe  will 
be  a  bright  career ;  and  we  never  hear  of  him  again.  The 
awkward,  square-shouldered  country  lad  comes  trudging  into 
town  with  his  grain,  perhaps,  and  at  evening  slips  away  to  the 
.ecture-room.  We  observe  neither  his  coming  nor  his  going, 
but  if  we  did  we  could  scarce  see  the  strong  intellect  burst 
ing  its  rough  kernel.  Years  pass,  and  suddenly  a  great 
man  rises  before  us — a  kind  of  intellectual  miracle.  The  dis- 
.  trict  school  was  the  nursery  of  this  intellect ;  a  country  news 
paper  lent  its  aid  to  foster  it ;  books,  old  dry  books,  that  those 
acquainted  with  modern  literature  would  never  think  of  read 
ing,  hedged  it  round  with  common  sense ;  occasional  visiters 
and  occasional  visits  added  to  the  fund  of  information  which 
the  newspaper  supplied ;  thought,  driven  to  feed  upon  itself 
for  want  of  other  food,  wrought  itself  into  a  giant ;  and  so  the 
wonder  grew. 

So  the  district  school  is  a  very  important  thing ;  and  hence 
we  are  not  disposed  to  undervalue  the  holyday  at  its  close  — 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  95 

a  great  and  important  day,  not  to  be  surpassed  by  Fourth-of- 
July  independence  or  Christmas  feasting  and  frolic.  The 
close  of  the  winter  school  is  very  much  like  the  breaking  up 
of  a  half-tamed  menagerie.  As  some  of  the  more  loving  sort 
of  animals  linger  around  their  keeper,  for  old  affection's  sake, 
so  Lucy  or  Tommy  hang,  finger  in  mouth,  upon  the  door- 
latch,  or  creep,  pussy-like,  near  the  desk,  half-ashamed,  yet 
loath  to  go  without  the  farewell  smile.  Others  stand  undis 
turbed  and  unmoved,  like  sturdy  bruin  or  Moses  Meecham ; 
while  a  few  of  the  wildest,  including  the  whole  catalogue  of 
apes,  enter  upon  some  mischievous  prank,  as  Zeke  Brown  re 
moves  the  door-step,  or  Fred  Lightbody  purloins  the  school 
master's  spectacles,  and  kindly  adjusts  his  wig  on  one  side  of 
his  head.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  of  these  freed  prisoners 
(from  both  menageries)  scamper  as  though  for  dear  life ;  and 
scarce  knowing  whether  their  feet  are  in  the  air  or  on  the 
ground,  give  such  an  idea  of  Babel  as  your  imagination  never 
conjured  up.  Oh,  those  are  very  desperate  hopefuls  that  in 
March  break  from  the  bondage  of  the  district  school ! 

I  once  had  the  pleasure  of  spending  a  winter  where  sleigh- 
rides  and  apple-bees,  and  spelling  schools  and  grammar  schools, 
constituted  a  very  delightful  complement  of  the  useful  and  or 
namental,  and  made  the  weeks  and  months  go  by  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  season  in  town,  with  the  advantage  of  coming 
from  the  winter's  dissipation  with  added  freshness  and  vigor. 
Our  school-house  was  a  little  square  box  of  a  thing,  tucked 
down  at  one  corner  of  a  piece  of  woodland — not  for  the  ad 
vantage  of  shade  —  oh  no  !  All  the  trees  that  would  be  likely 
to  keep  off  the  broiling  sun  in  summer,  or  in  winter  prevent 
the  snow  from  drifting  eave-high  before  the  door,  were  care 
fully  cut  down  and  cleared  away.  It  must  be  owned  that  this 
was  not  the  best  situation  for  the  school-house,  but  Squire 
Jones  wanted  it  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  district,  and  Doctor 
White  was  determined  that  it  should  be  in  the  western ;  so, 
to  settle  the  difficulty,  the  puzzled  managers,  who  were  ex 
pecting  nearly  all  the  funds  from  these  two  titled  personages, 
decided  on  what  they  considered  a  central  position,  measuring 


96  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

off  equal  distances  from  each  hearth-stone.  The  result  was, 
both  great  men  were  offended,  and  refused  to  relax  their  in 
sulted  purse  strings.  But  the  school-house  was  built  at  last 
— a  little  "  teenty  taunty  "  nut-shell  of  a  "  concarn,"  the  roof 
making  a  rather  steep  inclined  plane  from  ridge-pole  to  eaves, 
which  latter  just  overtopped  an  ample  row  of  good-sized,  well- 
glazed  windows.  People  seem  to  have  discovered  an  intimate 
connexion  between  physical  and  intellectual  light,  imagining 
probably  that  there  is  some  kind  of  a  filter  in  the  brain,  by 
which  the  eye-blinding  stream  is  converted  into  a  yet  more 
subtle  fluid — the  inner  light,  that  it  is  shockingly  transcen 
dental  to  furnish  with  a  name.  Our  school-house,  which  was 
fifteen  feet  square,  was  furnished  with  eleven  full-grown  win 
dows  ;  from  some  one  of  which  a  pane  of  glass  was  always 
broken,  and  its  place  supplied  by  hat  or  shawl.  Between  two 
of  these  windows  was  the  mouth  of  the  little  den,  and,  all  around 
it,  the  walls  were  ornamented  with  carved  work,  displaying  the 
artistic  developments  of  many  a  youthful  master  of  the  jack- 
knife. 

You  must  not  imagine  that  none  but  very  small  children 
attend  the  district  school;  for  the  winter  brings  together  a 
motley  assemblage  of  all  ages,  from  the  sturdy  little  chap  in 
his  linsey-woolsey  and  checked  apron,  to  the  merry  maiden 
of  sixteen,  who  decorates  the  parlor  of  a  Sunday  evening  for 
the  reception  of  a  lover,  and  the  comely  youth  whose  strong 
arm  in  summer  guides  the  plough  and  swings  the  scythe.  It 
is  a  happy  place,  that  district  school ;  overflowing  with  the 
genuine  cream  of  fun ;  gay,  busy,  mischief-hatching,  and 
gloriously  mischief-executing.  A  very  happy  place  is  it ;  and 
I  cannot  imagine  what  creates  the  undefinable  longing  for  the 
"  last  day,"  which  seems  to  be  the  prevalent  feeling  among 
the  young  tyros,  any  more  than  I  can  imagine  why,  in  our 
highest  state  of  happiness,  we  are  ever  looking  forward  to  the 
morrow.  Whatever  may  be  the  reason,  the  arrival  of  the 
"last  day"  is  carefully  watched  for;  and,  despite  the  old 
adage,  it  comes  at  last;  while,  with  smoothed  aprons  and 
cleaned  faces,  and  ah  bedecked  in  holyday  finery,  the  future 


THE    GREAT   MARCH*  HOLYDAY.  97 

statesmen  and  (provided  success  attend  some  of  the  reformers 
of  the  present  day)  stateswomen,  sally  forth  to  the  place  of 
action. 

I  have  hitherto  neglected  to  describe  the  interior  of  the 
Maple  Bush  school-house;  but  while  the  young  belles  are 
peeping  at  each  other  over  the  tops  of  their  books  to  see  which 
is  best  dressed,  the  beaux  penning  their  last  doggerels,  and 
the  younger  lads  and  lasses  alternately  sitting  bolt  upright, 
toes  to  the  crack  and  arms  twisted  on  the  breast,  like  a  Hol 
land  dough-nut,  and  lolling  half  over  to  the  floor  in  forgetful 
laziness,  we  may  get  time  for  a  glance. 

Yet,  now  that  I  think  again,  you  will  not  need  a  descrip 
tion,  for  I  am  on  an  old  theme ;  and  the  ranges  of  seats,  the 
schoolmaster's  throne,  with  its  "might-makes-right"  corner, 
appropriated  to  crumbled  ginger-bread,  half-eaten  apples,  bro 
ken  jack-knives,  strings,  whip-lashes,  tops,  and  spring-colored 
love-letters,  the  pine  floor  which  is  scrubbed  twice  a  year,  the 
evergreens,  the  ferule,  and  the  rod  are  no  new  things  to  you, 
particularly  if  you  have  ever  happened  to  meet  with  "  The 
District  School  as  it  Was."  One  thing,  however,  has  been 
changed  since  those  days.  The  old-fashioned  fire-place, 
which  formerly  yawned  on  one  side  beneath  the  stick  chim 
ney,  has  within  the  last  dozen  years  been  superseded  by  a 
rusty,  smoking  stove,  on  the  top  of  which  the  children  roast 
the  apples  and  cheese  for  their  dessert.  You  would  wonder, 
if  you  were  acquainted  in  the  Maple  Bush  district,  how  such 
an  innovation  was  ever  admitted  into  a  place  where  all  are 
such  sticklers  for  ancient  customs.  It  was  done,  as  most 
things  are  in  this  world,  whether  good  or  bad,  from  a  spirit 
of  opposition.  Nobody  had  a  stove,  or  dreamed  of  having 
one,  until  an  old  man  of  our  vicinity,  who  had  been  paying  a 
visit  in  town,  happened  to  get  into  a  rage  one  day  about 
"these  new-fangled  notions  for  picking  honest  folks'  pockets." 
Then,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  prevent  a  man's  storming  for 
naught,  and  wasting  his  eloquence  on  the  empty  air,  there 
rose  up  a  number  of  his  neighbors  to  oppose,  and  thereby  test, 
his  opinions.  It  became,  therefore,  absolutely  necessary  for 

VOL.  II.  9 


98  THE  GREAt  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

every  man  of  the  stove  party  to  be  in  possession  of  the  article 
in  question ;  and  so  absolutely  did  these  men  bear  sway,  that 
at  last  the  offensive  stove  found  its  way  even  to  the  very 
school-house.  Never  was  there  a  greater  warfare  about  old 
and  new  measures  than  was  carried  on  in  this  case ;  but  the 
stove  men  had  strong  limbs  and  powerful  voices,  and,  above 
all,  their  chief  speakers  had,  if  not  full  purses,  full  granaries ; 
so  they  came  off  victorious.  The  result  was,  the  anti-stoveites 
gave  due  notice  that  they  should  withdraw  their  patronage 
from  the  school ;  kept  their  word ;  and,  in  process  of  time, 
removed  to  some  more  congenial  neighborhood,  where,  if  they 
were  obliged  to  look  now  and  then  upon  a  stovfy  nobody  would 
know  that  the  sight  was  at  all  offensive. 

Well  do  I  remember  my  last  day  at  the  Maple  Bush  school. 
The  grand  event  had  been  anticipated  for  a  long  time  previous ; 
and,  for  a  whole  month,  scarce  anything  had  been  talked  of  but 
the  last  day,  and  what  would  be  fitting  and  proper  for  it.  We 
had  conned  the  spelling-book,  grammar,  and  geography,  till  the 
contents  of  our  juvenile  works  were  at  our  tongues'  ends,  and 
could  be  rattled  off  as  a  pedler  rattles  over  his  assortment  of 
"  pins,  needles,  scissors,  thimbles,  gloves,  silks,  laces,  black 
ladies'  hose,  shoe-strings,"  &c.,  &c.  Not  that  we  pretended 
to  know  the  meaning  of  the  words  which  rolled  over  our  pout 
ing  lips  so  glibly :  we  had  never  dreamed  that  written  words 
vvere  "signs  of  ideas."  A  class  of  young  mathematicians  had 
managed,  without  the  aid  of  the  now  essential  black-board,  to 
show  a  passable  acquaintance  with  Daboll's  Kules ;  (rules,  by 
the  way,  not  intended  to  explain  the  after  process,  but  set  up 
to  be  explained  when  practice  had  made  their  meaning  dedu- 
cible ;)  the  "first  class"  had  read  for  the  twentieth  time,  "Ad 
dress  to  the  Young,"  and  "  Oh,  solitude,  romantic  maid  ! " 
from  the  English  Reader;  and  the  principal  spelling-class 
had  practised  on  "  Michilimackinac,"  "  phthysic,"  and  the 
changes  of  "ail-to-be-troubled-table,"  until  quite  out  of  breath. 
But  Jack  Winslow  and  Peter  Quim  !  ah,  they  were  the  boast 
of  the  school,  and  to  their  histrionic  powers  the  proud  heart 
of  Mr.  Linkum  owed  its  highest  swellings.  Nothing  could 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  99 

equal  the  grace  with  which  they  flourished  hands  and  feet,  or 
the  grenadier  style  of  their  strut,  as  they  paraded  up  and  down 
the  little  corner  which  had  been  allotted  to  their  scenic  per 
formances.  To  be  sure  it  was  a  very  small  corner,  but  then 
it  required  fewer  blankets  to  partition  it  ofT,  and  much  less 
time  and  talent  to  decorate  it  with  proper  scenery.  Never 
was  a  school  better  prepared  for  the  final  ordeal ;  and  never 
was  a  teacher  better  satisfied  with  the  success  of  his  drilling 
than  our  honored  Mr.  Linkum. 

Fond  of  mental  display  as  we  were,  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  we  should  neglect  every  other  kind  ;  and,  for  more  than 
a  week,  we  had  employed  every  leisure  moment  in  decorating 
the  walls  with  evergreens,  consulting  with  each  other  how  our 
simple  furniture  should  be  arranged,  and  practising  bows  and 
courtesies.  Anxiously  had  we  watched  the  clouds  for  many 
days,  fearful  of  a  March  storm ;  but  with  what  joyous  heart- 
boundings  did  we  hail  the  morning  of  our  gala-day.  The  air 
had  that  rich,  pleasing  softness,  which,  although  it  makes  the 
earth  seem  about  to  melt  away  beneath  our  feet,  we  welcome 
so  gratefully,  loving  to  feel  its  delicious  kiss  on  cheek  and 
forehead.  Here  and  there  the  snow  had  melted  off,  exposing 
little  patches  of  faded  green,  where  nestled  the  spicy  blossoms 
of  the  trailing  arbutis,  amid  piles  of  withered  leaves,  blown 
together  by  the  winds  of  the  preceding  autumn.  Then,  on 
one  knoll  peculiarly  favored  by  the  sun,  the  little  pink-eyed 
claytonias  had  actually  congregated  in  tribes,  and  amid  the 
moss  in  the  centre  —  no,  I  was  not  mistaken  —  the  hepatica 
itself!  That  snowy  white,  variegated  by  the  faintest  tints  of 
pink,  and  blue,  and  purple,  was  more  familiar  than  the  alpha, 
bet ;  for  it  was  in  that  fragrant  alphabet  that  I  had  taken  my 
first  life-lesson.  Oh,  that  bright,  rich  March  morning! 
Gladness  was  in  the  sky,  and  on  the  air,  and  upspringing 
from  the  earth.  And  those  were  light  hearts,  indeed,  which 
came  out  to  welcome  it. 

The  sun  had  crept  up  the  sky  but  a  little  way  before  we 
were  congregated  about  the  door  of  the  school-house  at  the 
corner  of  the  woods ;  and  the  commingling  of  merry  voices, 


100  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

if  not  quite  as  musical  as  that  of  the  summer  birds,  was  cer 
tainly  as  glad.  And  what  was  the  source  of  all  this  gladness? 
We  loved  dearly  to  be  together,  loved  our  good  Mr.  Linkum, 
loved  our  sports,  and  some  of  us  loved  our  books  —  and  we 
had  come  together  for  the  purpose  of  parting.  How  could  we 
be  glad  ?  Oh,  a  bright  day  was  before  us,  and  it  was  quite 
too  early  to  begin  to  grieve.  Surely  children,  with  their  de 
termined  joyousness,  in  the  face  of  shadows,  and  tears,  and 
death  itself,  are  the  true  philosophers  of  this  world.  A  kind 
Providence  has  so  mingled  our  cup  that  the  sweet  is  always 
beside  the  bitter ;  the  wise  man  sips  at  the  bitter,  and  mur 
murs  constantly ;  the  child  drinks  down  the  sweet,  and  never 
looks  at  the  other. 

The  "  last  day"  passed  pleasantly  with  us  all.  Fathers  and 
mothers,  older  sisters  and  brothers,  fond,  chuckling  grand 
papas,  and  aunties  still  more  fond,  came  crowding  in,  and 
listened  vdth  rapt  attention  to  the  doings  of  the  youthful 
prodigies.  Then  two  grave  gentlemen  rose  slowly  from  their 
seats  and  made  some  nattering  remarks ;  suggesting,  however, 
as  ballast  for  their  praise,  that  the  girls  might  have  read  a  little 
louder,  and  the  boys  a  little  slower,  and  that  by  the  copy-books 
they  had  discovered  a  prevailing  propensity  for  crooked-backed 
t's,  and  finger-prints  done  in  ink.  This  accomplished,  the 
company  retired,  and  then  the  grand  treasure  was  unlocked. 
Did  you  ever,  dear  reader,  did  you  ever  stand  on  the  tip-toe 
of  expectation,  the  blood  tingling  in  your  veins  away  down  to 
the  tips  of  your  fingers,  and  your  eyes  sparkling  with  the 
briramings  of  a  heart  crowded  with  pleasure,  while  the  blue, 
and  red,  and  green,  and  yellow  treasures  were  scattered 
among  your  companions?  Then,  when  your  own  turn  came, 
and  the  bow  and  "  thank  you,  sir,"  were  given  with  shame 
faced  exultation,  and  you  had  lifted  the  cover  and  found  pre 
cisely  the  thing  you  were  hoping  for !  "  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood,"  perhaps ;  or  maybe  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood,"  all 
done  in  the  quaintest  of  rhymes,  with  the  quaintest  of  cuts  to 
illustrate  them  —  ah  !  do  you  recollect  that  day  ?  and  do  you 
ever  expect  or  wish  to  be  happier  ? 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  101 

In  addition  to  the  gifts  usually  made  on  such  occasions,  it 
had  been  the  practice  of  teachers  at  the  Maple  Bush  to  award 
a  prize  to  the  pupil  who  had  made  the  greatest  proficiency. 
This  plan  is  doubtless  ill-judged,  being  productive  of  many 
evil  consequences ;  but  it  was  formerly  extensively  practised, 
and  may  be  none  the  less  so  now.  The  result  of  the  harmful 
spirit  of  rivalry  thus  excited,  is  usually  a  period  of  contention, 
and  finally  a  settled  dislike,  which  strengthens  into  hatred,  for 
the  successful  candidate.  This  hatred  is  often  too  deeply 
rooted  to  yield  to  the  influence  of  time ;  and  with  some  it 
mingles  as  a  bitter  ingredient  in  the  cup  of  their  after  life. 
It  was  not,  however,  so  at  the  Maple  Bush ;  though  justice 
and  equity  had  but  little  to  do  with  keeping  off  the  evil.  We 
very  well  understood  (no  disrespect  to  our  half-year  monarch, 
whose  taste  and  judgment  cannot  be  too  highly  commended) 
that  the  prize  was  not  awarded  to  literary  merit  —  for  some 
how  the  good  schoolmaster,  by  a  process  of  reasoning  un 
known  to  some  of  us  then,  though  we  are  all  wiser  now,  con 
trived  to  have  some  favorite  bear  away  the  prize.  I  say  the 
process  was  unknown  to  us  then ;  for  we  had  not  learned  how 
strangely  a  pretty  face  (or  even  a  face  that  is  not  pretty,  if  one 
can  only  imagine  it  is)  distorts  the  mental  vision,  and  invests 
those  favored  with  our  partiality  with  all  the  qualities  we  wish 
them  to  possess. 

Dolly  Foster,  a  dark-eyed,  roguish-lipped,  merry-hearted 
specimen  of  bright  sixteen,  with  more  mischief  in  her  than 
erudition,  and  more  of  kindness  than  either,  had  so  often  won 
the  prize  at  the  hands  of  admiring  schoolmasters,  that  it  had 
become  quite  a  matter  of  course ;  and  certainly  no  one  had 
reason  to  suspect  a  failure  on  the  part  of  the  belle  of  the  Maple 
Bush  this  season. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  prize  will  be  —  something  nice,  of 
course." 

"Ah,  catch  Mr.  Linkum  giving  anything  not  nice  —  eh, 
Dolly?" 

And  then  Dolly  would  blush;  and  then  such  a  shout! 
Laughing  is  healthful ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  the  founda- 

VOT,.   II.  9^ 


102  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

tion  for  many  a  good  constitution  was  laid  in  that  school-house 
at  the  Maple  Bush. 

The  winks  and  inuendoes  by  which  pretty  Dolly  Foster 
was  so  nearly  demolished,  were  not  altogether,  the  result  of  a 
love  of  teasing.  There  was  something  to  tease  "  little  cherry- 
cheeks"  for.  Every  girl  and  every  boy  in  our  school  remem 
bered  how,  on  one  occasion,  a  whole  party  of  disobedient  sliders 
had  been  most  unexpectedly  forgiven ;  and  when,  in  a  state 
of  pleased  wonderment,  they  looked  about  them  for  the  cause, 
there  stood  Miss  Dolly,  the  foremost  of  the  transgressors,  close 
by  the  soft-hearted  Mr.  Linkum,  looking  up,  oh  so  pleadingly  ! 
and  he,  the  drollest  combination  of  would-be  severity  and  em 
barrassed  relenting  that  ever  was  seen.  The  little  community 
said  nothing;  but  there  was  an  instantaneous  illumination  of 
countenance,  as  though  an  idea  worth  having  had  flashed  in 
upon  them ;  and  henceforth  Miss  Dolly  became  a  sort  of  scape 
goat  for  the  whole. 

Then,  on  another  occasion  —  ah!  Dolly  had  dared  too 
much  then;  it  was  an  act  of  downright  disobedience,  and 
could  not  be  tolerated.  She  took  her  stand  beside  the  mas 
ter's  desk  with  a  kind  of  abashed  sauciness ;  confident,  yet 
timid ;  evidently  a  little  sorry  that  there  was  quite  so  much 
roguery  nestled  in  the  curve  of  that  pretty  lip  of  hers,  or 
that  being  there  it  could  not  keep  its  niche  without  creep 
ing  down  to  the  naughty  little  fingers,  and  at  the  same 
time  pleased  with  the  opportunity  of  testing  her  power.  At 
first  she  called  to  her  aid  her  ever-ready  wit,  and  endeavored 
to  turn  the  whole  affair  into  ridicule ;  then  she  pouted,  trotted 
her  little  foot  in  anger,  and  looked  sulky ;  but  Mr.  Linkum, 
though  evidently  distressed,  was  not  to  be  thus  baffled.  My 
readers  must  remember  that  some  dozen  years  ago,  "  govern 
ment  by  moral  suasion"  was  not  so  fashionable  as  at  the  pres 
ent  day ;  and  no  age  or  sex  was  exempt  from  birchen-rod  or 
cherry  ferule.  Dolly  could  go  a  little  further  than  anybody  else  ; 
but  there  were  bounds"  even  to  her  liberty,  or  the  dignity  of 
the  schoolmaster  would  be  sadly  compromised.  Dolly  must 
be  punished,  that  was  certain  —  and  neither  laughing  nor 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  103 

pouting  could  save  her.  The  poor  schoolmaster,  the  greater 
sufferer  by  far,  was  not  the  only  one  in  the  room  who  would 
have  taken  a  hundred  blows  to  save  her  pretty  hand  one  ;  and, 
as  we  saw  him  eyeing  his  huge  ferule  with  evidently  murder 
ous  intent,  a  strange  silence  reigned  throughout  the  circle. 
Even  the  girls,  after  slightly  fluttering  the  leaves  of  their 
books,  and  shuffling  their  feet  carelessly,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Who  cares  ?  What  better  is  her  slim  little  contrivance  of  a 
hand  than  ours  ?  "  seemed  to  partake  of  the  general  interest. 
Mr.  Linkum  eyed  the  ferule  sternly — a  kind  of  desperate 
sternness  like  that  the  timid  sheriff  feels  when  he  adjusts  the 
fatal  knot ;  then  seized  it  resolutely,  and  petrified  us  all  by  the 
low,  terrible  words  —  "  Give  me  your  hand  ! "  All  were  petri 
fied  but  Dolly  herself;  she,  poor  child,  was  meekly,  hopelessly 
heart-broken.  Timidly  the  pretty  hand  was  extended;  but 
there  was  a  heart-throb  in  every  dear  little  finger,  which  poor 
'i/Lr.  Linkum  must  have  been  insane  to  think  of  withstanding. 
Oh,  there  is  a  witchery  in  a  hand,  in  some  hands  ;  and  the 
soft,  beseeching  touch  of  Dolly's,  all  quivering  as  it  was  with 
agitation,  went  (I  cannot  say  precisely  how,  but  doubtless 
Neurologists  might  tell)  to  Mr.  Linkum's  heart.  He  sudden 
ly  turned  very  red,  as  though  that  delicate  touch  had  pressed 
all  the  blood  from  his  heart ;  then  very  pale,  as  though  it  had 
called  home  the  crimson  tide  and  buried  it  there  —  and  the 
hand  clasping  the  raised  ferule  dropped  helplessly  by  his  side. 
Sweet  little  Dolly  (her  head  had  been  drooping  on  her  bosom 
for  the  last  half  minute)  raised  her  soft  blue  eyes  pleadgigly  to 
the  master's  face,  and  the  next  moment  they  overflowed — 
the  big  tear-drops  gushed  from  their  sunny  fountain  and  fell 
in  a  sudden  shower  upon  her  own  hand  and  his.  Poor  Mr. 
Linkum !  what  a  savage  he  felt  himself !  It  was  too,  too 
much. 

The  poor  fellow  turned  suddenly  to  his  desk — Dolly,  among 
the  dozen  seats  which  were  offered  her,  sought  the  nearest, 
and  hid  her  burning  face  in  a  neighbor's  apron,  while  a  sim 
ultaneous  titter  went  around  the  room ;  and  there  was  a  gen 
eral  tossinpf  of  pretty  heads  and  ominous  shakes  of  would-be- 


104  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

wise  ones.  Fred  Lightbody  (but  then  Fred  was  a  wag,  and 
was  seldom,  more  than  half  believed)  asserted  that  when  Mr. 
Linkum  turned  from  the  desk,  where  he  stood  for  several  min 
utes  intently  examining  a  book  which  chanced  to  be  open  at  a 
blank  page,  his  eye  had  a  singular  dewiness  about  it,  and  we 
all  observed  a  tremulous  faltering  in  his  voice  when  he  ordered 
us  to  our  books.  We  remarked,  too,  that  he  did  not  look  at 
Dolly  again  that  day  —  and  that  unusual  flashes  of  red  spread 
now  and  then  across  his  face,  as  though  his  anger  were  quite 
uncontrollable. 

That  was  the  last  time  Dolly  Foster  ever  transgressed. 
She  was  just  as  mischievous,  just  as  full  of  fun  and  frolicking 
as  ever;  and  at  the  spelling-schools,  singing-schools  and 
apple-bees,  she  played  off  a  thousand  pranks  on  wise,  sober 
Mr.  Linkum — but  in  the  day  school  pretty  Dolly  was  as 
demure  as  a  kitten. 

All  these  things  were  called  to  memory  on  the  morning  of 
the  "  last  day;"  and  who  of  us  could  doubt  but  Dolly  Foster 
would  receive  the  prize  ?.  She  had  won  it  before,  when  there 
were  not  half  as  many  indications  of  partiality. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  prize  will  be  ?  " 

The  same  wonder  had  been  expressed  a  hundred  times  that 
winter. 

"  Something  handsome,  of  course." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course"  And  then  a  merry  burst  of  laughter 
went  the  rounds. 

"  What  can  make  Dolly  Foster  so  late  ?" 

"  What  can  make  Dolly  Foster  so  late  ? "  was  echoed  and 
reechoed,  as  the  hour  of  nine  drew  near.  We  knowing  ones 
were  of  the  opinion  that  she  was  detained  by  some  toilet  diffi 
culties  ;  that  her  beautiful  hair  had  taken  a  fancy  just  now, 
when  it  should  have  been  most  pliable,  not  to  curl,  or  that  the 
mantuamaker  had  ruined  her  dress.  But  these  were  trifles 
to  Dolly  Foster,  and  we  were  confident  that  they  would  not 
keep  her  away  from  school.  What,  then,  was  our  disappoint 
ment,  our  consternation,  nay,  our  vexation,  (people  are  always 
vexed  when  they  guess  wrong,)  when  not  only  on  the  morn- 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  105 

ing  but  afternoon  of  the  last  day,  it  was  found  that  Miss  Dolly 
had  absented  herself.  It  was  perfectly  unaccountable.  She 
was  not  ill,  for  she  had  been  seen  flying  from  one  part  of  the 
spacious  farm-house  to  another,  by  those  who  had  passed 
there,  as  blithe  and  happy  as  a  bee ;  and  when  her  brother 
Dick  was  questioned  about  the  matter,  he  laughed  and  looked 
at  the  master,  while  the  master  blushed  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

As  I  have  said  before,  the  last  day  passed  off  finely,  except 
that  Mr.  Linkum  made  some  mistakes,  such  as  calling  Fred 
Lightbody  Dolly — and  when  he  was  asked  the  time,  saying 
eight  o'clock  instead  of  three.  And,  as  I  have  not  said  before, 
the  prize  was  this  time  really  a  reward  for  application.  It 
was  won  by  Abraham  Nelson,  the  great  awkward  but  perse- 
veringly  studious  son  of  Nelson,  the  day-laborer ;  and  Abra 
ham  Nelson  was  persecuted  forever  after.  It  was  not  strange. 
Vanity  is  undoubtedly  everywhere  the  same  reprehensible 
thing ;  but  the  vanity  of  a  pretty  girl  has  something  rather 
fascinating  in  it,  while  that  of  a  great  lubberly  boy  is  unen 
durable.  Abraham  Nelson's  vanity  took  on  the  most  disa 
greeable  form,  and  so  both  parties  were  sufferers. 

Mr.  Linkum  was  a  general  favorite,  notwithstanding  his 
partiality  in  a  particular  case,  and  I  believe  the  "  big  boys  " 
of  our  school  (that  is,  all  the  hopefuls  between  fourteen  and 
twenty-one)  never  felt  more  inclined  to  be  sadly  serious  than 
as  the  hour  of  four  drew  near  on  that  long-expected,  long- 
desired  March  holyday.  They  gathered  around  the  master 

—  each  one  dreading  to  give  the  good-bye  shake  of  the  hand 

—  and  I  remember  that  for  one  I  felt  exceedingly  vexed  by 
his  seeming  indifference.     He  was  evidently  embarrassed ;  he 
half  wished  to  appear  serious,  as  became  the  dignity  of  his 
station ;  and  yet  there  was  a  look  of  mirthful  exultation  sur 
mounting  all,  which  made  the  expression  of  his  face  irresisti 
bly  comical.     He  saw  that  all  were  imbibing  his  spirit,  and 
finally  he  broke  away  from  the  circle  with  a  "  Never  mind, 
boys,  we  will  have  fine  times  yet ;"  and  jumping  upon  a  pass 
ing  sleigh,  he  was  carried  out  of  sight.     Mr.  Linkum  did  not 
promise  without  cause. 


106  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAT. 

There  was  a  wedding  at  the  Maple  Bush  that  evening — a 
quiet,  cozy,  family  affair ;  and  the  pretty  belle  of  the  district, 
though  quite  as  pretty  and  quite  as  mischievously  attractive, 
was  a  belle  no  longer.  Bright,  witching  Dolly  Foster  !  what 
a  dear  little  neighborhood  blessing  she  had  always  been,  with 
her  sunny  face  and  sunny  heart  and  open  hand !  And  what 
a  charming  little  bride  of  a  Madam  Linkum  she  made  !  How 
everybody  loved  her  !  How  the  old  ladies  praised  her  docility 
and  teachableness !  and  how  the  young  ladies  doted  on 
her  as  a  model  of  taste  and  socialness !  Oh,  Dolly  Foster 
was  the  flower  of  the  Maple  Bush;  but  bewitching  Mrs. 
Linkum  was  its  gem — its  lamp — its  star. 


107 


NOT  A  POET. 

I  AM  a  little  maiden, 

Who  fain  would  touch  the  lyre 
But  my  poor  fingers  ever 

Bring  discord  from  the  wire. 
'T  is  strange  I  'm  not  a  poet ; 

There  's  music  in  my  hearlj 
Some  mystery  must  linger 

About  this  magic  art. 

I  'm  told  that  joyous  spirits, 

Untouched  by  grief  or  care, 
In  mystery  so  holy 

Are  all  too  light  to  share. 
My  heart  is  very  gladsome ; 

But  there  's  a  corner  deep, 
Where  many  a  shadow  nestles, 

And  future  sorrows  sleep. 

I  hope  they  '11  not  awaken 

As  yet  for  many  a  year ; 
There  's  not  on  earth  a  jewel, 

That 's  worth  one  grief-born  tear. 
Long  may  the  harp  be  silent, 

If  Sorrow's  touch  alone, 
Upon  the  chords  descending, 

Has  power  to  wake  its  tone. 

I  'd  never  be  a  poet, 

My  bounding  heart  to  hush 
And  lay  down  at  the  altar 

For  Sorrow's  foot  to  crush. 


108 


NOT    A   POET. 

Ah,  no  !  I  '11  gather  sunshine 
For  coming  evening's  hours ; 

And  while  the  spring-time  lingers, 
I  '11  garner  up  its  flowers, 

I  fain  would  learn  the  music 

Of  those  who  dwell  in  heaven  • 
For  woe-tuned  harp  was  never 

To  seraph  fingers  given. 
But  I  will  strive  no  longer 

To  waste  my  heart-felt  mirth ; 
I  will  mind  me  that  the  gifted 

Are  the  stricken  ones  of  earth. 


109 


TWO    NIGHTS   IN    THE    "NIEUW 
NEDERLANDTS." 

IT  was  on  the  night  of  the  25th  of  February,  1643,  that  a 
middle-aged  man,  with  an  honest,  frank,  sun-browned  face 
and  a  powerful  frame,  sat  and  warmed  himself  by  the  kitchen 
fire  in  the  Governor's  house  at  Fort  Amsterdam.  He  was 
singularly  uneasy ;  every  now  and  then  clenching  his  fist  and 
moving  his  nervous  arm  as  in  angry  gesticulation ;  while  his 
fine  eye  turned  from  one  object  to  another  with  a  kind  of 
eager  dread,  and  his  naturally  clear,  open  countenance  was 
drawn  into  a  scowl  compounded  of  various  strong  emotions. 
He  was  alone,  and  bore  himself  much  as  though  belonging  to 
the  household ;  for  he  certainly  could  not  have  been  greatly 
inferior  to  its  master  in  point  of  dignity.  All  within  doors 
was  perfectly  silent — painfully  so,  it  seemed  to  the  stern 
watcher — and  within,  the  heavy,  monotonous  tread  of  a  sen 
tinel,  at  a  little  distance,  gave  the  only  evidence  that  the  pulse 
of  the  young  city  had  not  ceased  its  breathings.  At  last  the 
man  drew  from  his  pocket  a  massive  " Nuremburg  egg"  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"  Twelve  o'clock — five  —  almost  ten  minutes  past !  Thank 
God,  if  their  hellish  plan  has  miscarried  ! " 

A  long,  loud,  terrible  shriek,  as  of  a  multitude  of  voices 
combining  their  agony,  came  up  from  the  distance  even  as 
he  spoke ;  and,  dropping  the  watch  upon  the  stone  hearth,  the 
listener  sprang  with  an  exclamation  of  horror  to  his  feet. 

"  God  forgive  me,  if  I  curse  my  race  and  nation  !  It  is  a 
deed  worthy  of  the  devil — and  they  call  themselves  men  and 
Christians ! " 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  long  kitchen,  his  brows  knit 
and  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  muttering  as  he  went, 

VOL.  n.  10 


110  TWO   NIGHTS    IN    THE 

"  Without  the  consent  of  the  committee  !  —  in  the  face  of  my 
protestation  as  its  head!  —  the  bloody-minded  littleness  of  the 
assassin!  —  creeping  upon  the  defenceless  at  midnight! — why, 
their  savage  doings  at  Swanendael  and  Staten  Island  were 
Christian  deeds  to  this !  If  evil  come,  if  evil  come  of  it, 
Wilhelm  Kieft,  thou  shalt  be  the  first  sufferer,  if  there  be 
strength  in  the  hand  of  Pieterszen  de  Vries  to  push  thee  from 
thy  kennel.  Dog !  base  dog !  Nay ;  I  belie  the  brute  to 
name  thee  so,  cowardly  blood-sucker  that  thou  art ! " 

He  opened  the  door,  and,  walking  forth,  mounted  the  para 
pets.  The  cries  of  suffering  and  terror  had  entirely  ceased ; 
but  the  noise  of  fire-arms  came  from  Pavonia,  and  gleams  of 
light  flashed  from  the  opposite  shore  and  gilded  the  waters  of 
the  bay. 

"  A  mighty  feat,  indeed  !  *  worthy  the  heroes  of  old  Rome  ! ' 
Noble  Kieft !  thy  employers  shall  have  a  full  account  of  these 
brave  doings." 

The  speaker  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ha,  De  Heer !  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"But  you  should  have  slept,  my  good  Lilier;  you  will 
have  cause  to  think  lightly  enough  of  your  adopted  home, 
without  seeing  this." 

"  What  means  it,  De  Vries  ?" 

"  Our  gallant  Director  is  desirous  of  making  himself  fa 
mous  ;  and  so  has  concocted  a  piece  of  villany  that  no  bucca 
neer  captain  on  the  high  seas  would  stain  his  honor  withal." 

"  I  thought  an  enemy  had  been  surprised,  and — " 

"  An  enemy !  no,  Lilier,  a  friend  !  Let  us  go  in — the  air 
smells  of  murder,  and  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.     What  is  it?" 

"  Treachery.  More  than  one  hundred  of  our  friends  and 
neighbors,  Indians  from  Tappaen  and  Wickquaesgeck,  lay 
down  in  sight  of  the  fort  to-night,  never  dreaming  of  harm ; 
and  they  have  all  been  murdered  in  their  sleep." 

"  Not  by  white  men  ?  " 

"  By  Kief's  soldiers." 

"  Dastardly '     Such  things  should  not  be  suffered." 


NIEUW     NEDERLANDTS.  Ill 

"  How  are  they  to  be  avoided  ?  The  Company  care  but 
little  for  our  interests,  farther  than  our  prosperity  has  a  bear 
ing  on  their  commercial  enterprises." 

"  They  ought  to  be  made  to  listen ;  for  if  a  better  and  more 
prudent  man  be  not  selected  to  take  charge  of  the  colonies,  the 
abuses  of  Van  Twiller,  as  you  used  to  recount  them  to  me 
in  Holland,  will  find  more  than  a  parallel." 

"  Wouter  Van  Twiller  was  a  thrice  sodden  fool;  yet  he 
had  a  man's  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  his  errors  were  the  result 
of  weakness,  not  vice  ;  he  had  no  taste  for  lapping  up  human 
blood.  We  have  men  to  govern  us  in  the  East  Indies,  but 
here  they  give  us  nothing  but  blockheads  and  serpents." 

By  this  time  the  two  men  had  gained  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
the  light  was  shining  full  upon  their  faces.  The  companion 
of  the  patroon  was  a  very  young  man,  of  slight  figure  and 
delicate  features,  and  withal  a  high-bred  air,  which  denoted 
his  patrician  origin.  His  leading  characteristic  seemed  to  be 
extreme  gentleness ;  and  certainly  there  was  nothing  in  the 
large  blue  eyes  and  bright  golden  curls  that  fell  about  his 
neck,  instead  of  being  gathered  into  a  queue  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Hollanders,  (if  the  observer  could  but  shut  his  eyes  on 
an  occasional  drawing  in  of  the  lip  and  swell  of  the  nostril,) 
indicative  of  superior  manliness.  Yet,  (and  the  bold  voyager 
knew  it  and  loved  him  for  it,)  in  that  very  bosom  slept  mate 
rials  for  a  hero.  So  might  have  looked  the  voluptuous  king 
who  dallied  away  his  time  among  fountains  and  flowers  and 
singing  girls;  but  became  a  lion  in  the  hour  of  peril,  and, 
building  his  own  funeral  pile,  clung  to  his  throne  till  both 
were  ashes.  Yet  the  comparison  is  not  a  fair  one,  for  Lilier, 
if  gentle  as  a  girl  when  there  was  no  cause  for  the  exercise 
of  deeper  qualities,  was  also  as  pure.  With  a  spirit  deeply 
imbued,  with  religious  feeling,  he  had  early  embraced  the  sen 
timents  of  the  Huguenots  ;  and  when  a  mere  boy  had  turned 
to  Holland,  the  asylum  of  the  persecuted  of  all  creeds  and 
nations.  There  he  had  met  with  De  Vries,  then  master  of 
artillery  in  the  service  of  the  United  Provinces,  and  after 
wards  the  hardy  voyager  and  discreet  colonist.  There  was 


112  TWO    NIGHTS    IN   THE 

something  in  the  bold  chivalrous  character  of  this  enterprising 
man,  to  whom,  as  the  historian  Bancroft  has  it,  Delaware 
owes  its  existence,  that  made  him  a  kind  of  lion-hearted 
Richard  to  the  Frenchman.  Hence  a  warm  friendship 
sprang  up  between  them ;  for  which  the  impulsive  romance 
of  the  one  and  the  steady  sternness  of  the  other,  offered 
ample  materials.  De  Vries  seemed  ever  ready  to  regard  his 
young  friend  with  the  affectionate  interest  of  a  parent;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  particularly  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  he 
preserved  towards  him  a  deference  of  manner  which  men 
were  ready  enough  to  set  down  to  the  account  of  high  birth. 

The  Hollander  had  spread  open  his  broad,  tough  palm  to 
the  genial  blaze,  and  was  watching  in  gloomy  silence  the 
flickering  light  coquetting  with  the  rafters  above  his  head, 
apparently  without  a  thought  of  his  companion,  who  leaned 
pensively  against  the  pictorial  tiles  in  the  chimney,  when  the 
door  was  suddenly  pushed  open,  and  two  persons  sprang  into 
the  centre  of  the  kitchen.  The  first  was  a  tall  savage,  nearly 
naked,  his  face  painted  with  colors  of  red  and  black,  a  snake- 
skin  bound  around  his  forehead,  a  tuft  of  coarse  plumes  on 
his  head,  and  tomahawk  in  hand ;  the  other  was  a  female. 
She  cast  a  timid  glance  about  her  as  she  entered,  and  glided 
quietly  into  the  shadow  of  the  chimney,  as  though  shrinking 
from  the  bold  glare  of  the  light.  Not  so  the  man.  Recog 
nizing  the  patroon,  he  planted  himself  at  once  before  him  and 
unhesitatingly  claimed  his  protection.  They  had  come  from 
beyond  the  Tappaen,  he  said,  he  and  his  brother  warriors, 
with  their  women  and  children,  and  encamped  at  Pavonia ; 
but  the  Maquas,  their  enemies  from  fort  Orange,  had  come 
upon  them  in  the  night,  and  murdered  all  while  sleeping. 

"  No !  by  heaven,  Lickquequa,"  exclaimed  the  honest 
patroon,  "  you  shall  not  so  belie  the  Maquas.  The  fort  is  no 
place  for  a  skin  of  the  color  that  you  wear ;  you  have  run 
your  neck  into  the  trapper's  n-jose.  It  is  the  Swarmekins 
themselves  that  have  murdered  your  warriors." 

The  Indianjaid  his  hand  upon  his  tomahawk,  and  his  eyes 
glittered. 


NIEUW   NEDERLANDTS.  113 

"Do  you  understand  me?  Your  enemies  are  here — 
within  these  very  walls  —  they  will  send  you  to  a  better  hunt 
ing-ground  than  Wickquaesgeck." 

"  Lickquequa  will  take  a  scalp  with  him,"  said  the  Indian, 
with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Ay,  take  it ! "  answered  the  patroon,  lifting  a  mass  of 
grizzled  hair  from  his  forehead,  and  showing  a  tempting  line 
of  white  that  presented  quite  a  contrast  to  the  bronzed  com 
plexion  below,  "  take  it,  and  avenge  the  foul  wrong  you  have 
suffered  to-night." 

The  muscles  in  the  face  of  the  Indian  relaxed  just  suffi 
ciently  to  evince  his  admiration,  without  compromising  his 
reputation  for  dignified  indifference  ;  but  Lilier  had  too  little 
knowledge  of  Indian  character  to  read  the  emotion  correctly. 

"  You  are  mad,  De  Heer,"  he  exclaimed  earnestly ;  "  you 
never  consented  to  this  murder ;  you  are  the  Indian's  friend, 
and  will  get  this  man  in  safety  from  the  fort.  Come,  we  will 
convey  him  through  the  back  door,  and  along " 

"  We  will  convey  him  openly.  Lickquequa  is  my  neigh 
bor,  and  entitled  to  my  protection.  I  will  not  skulk  and 
creep  about  for  fear  of  Kieft  and  his  blood-hounds ;  I  will  go 
out  openly,  with  this  man  beside  me ;  and,  if  any  one  attempts 
to  interfere,  I  will  shoot  him." 

,  The  Frenchman  saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to  dispute 
the  point,  for  De  Vries'  blood  was  heated ;  and  he  followed 
the  two  men  in  silence.  As  they  passed  out,  and  were  about 
closing  the  door,  the  woman  who  had  escaped  with  Lickque 
qua,  slid  silently  through  the  opening  and  crept  along  in  the 
shadow  cast  upon  the  ground  by  the  group  before  her.  The 
young  man  beckoned  her  to  draw  nearer,  for  it  was  prudent 
to  make  the  party  as  small  as  possible ;  and,  shrinkingly,  the 
woman  obeyed.  That  was  a  beautiful  face  which  raised 
itself  beaming  with  gratitude  to  Lilier's,  but  in  the  next 
moment  it  was  nearly  hidden  in  the  embroidered  mantle 
folded  over  her  bosom;  for  the  Indian  maiden  was  either 
very  modest  or  very  timid.  The  gate  was  unguarded,  and 
they  passed  on  without  a  challenge. 

VOL=  IT,  10* 


114  TWO   NIGHTS   IN    THE 

Lilier's  sympathies  had  at  first  been  strongly  enlisted  in 
the  cause  of  humanity;  and  now  that  cause  was  scarce 
likely  to  lose  anything  by  uniting  youth  and  beauty  with  it. 
There  was  a  deep  cast  of  romance  in  his  character,  and  this 
incident  had  sufficient  romantic  interest  in  it,  to  combine  with 
the  witching  hour  and  the  glittering  moonlight  in  giving  to 
his  thoughts  a  color  which  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
show  De  Vries.  Thus  it  was  that  his  manner  to  the  fugitive 
Indian  girl,  while  studiously  attentive,  yet  put  on  a  delicate 
reserve,  which  would  have  been  peculiarly  appropriate  had  an 
honorable  cavalier  suddenly  found  himself  the  escort  and  pro 
tector  of  one  of  the  fairest  dames  of  Europe.  Human  nature 
is  everywhere  the  same,  of  whatever  hue  the  cheek  may  be  ; 
and  understands  the  language  addressed  to  it,  though  the 
tongue  may  use  a  strange  jargon ;  but  it  was  difficult  to  dis 
cover  whether  the  courtly  manners  of  the  young  Frenchman 
were  in  this  instance  appreciated. 

When  they  had  crossed  a  corner  of  the  woods  and  set 
their  fugitives  safely  on  their  way  to  Tappaen,  De  Vries  pro 
posed  taking  leave  of  them  and  returning  to  the  fort. 

"  Go,"  said  Lickquequa,  coldly. 

The  maiden  raised  again  her  finely-sculptured  head,  and  as 
she  did  so,  a  bright  moonbeam  came  glancing  downwards, 
revealing  the  rich  complexion,  the  large,  mournful  eyes,  the 
finely-arched  brows,  and  the  luxurious  lips.  It  was  imme 
diately  lowered  again,  and  she  followed  in  the  track  of  Lick 
quequa. 

"  She  must  not  go  alone,  so  unprotected,"  exclaimed 
Lilier,  looking  at  De  Vries  for  approbation. 

The  patroon  smiled. 

"  She  is  a  ivoman,  and  the  Indian  takes  no  notice  of  her." 

"  She  does  not  want  his  notice,  nor  ours.  She  is  in  her 
own  palace  now,  and  is  growing  quite  the  queen.  Look ! 
see  how  freely  and  proudly  she  steps.  She  does  not  crouch 
now,  and  would  laugh  at  the  very  word  protection.  See  !  her 
path  leads  away  from  Lickquequa's.  God  grant  that  she  has 
no  father's,  or  brother's,  or  lover's  death  to  avenge;  for, 


NIEUW    NEDERLANDTS.  115 

JLilier,  it  is  proud  blood  that  flows  in  those  veins,  and,  if  she 
would,  she  might  light  a  train  with  it  that  Nieuw  Neder- 
landts  would  feel  to  its  centre.  I  know  by  her  dress  that  she 
is  the  daughter  of  one  of  their  sagamores." 

"  But  woman's  words  have  no  weight  in  the  council." 
"  Certainly  not.     These  people,  however,  have  such  broad 
ears  when  the  cry  is  for  vengeance,  that  a  word  whispered  in 
the  wigwam  may  call  into  action  a  thousand  tomahawks." 

Lilier  looked  after  the  retreating  figure  of  the  Indian  mai 
den,  and  thought  of  Zenobia ;  then  he  remembered  the 
glimpses  he  had  of  her  face,  and  he  walked  back  to  the  fort 
by  the  side  of  De  Vries  without  speaking  a  word. 

The  treachery  of  the  whites,  as  might  have  been  antici 
pated,  met  with  a  deadly  vengeance.  The  exasperated  sava 
ges  scoured  the  whole  country  from  Nieuw  Amsterdam 
nearly  to  fort  Orange ;  and  houses,  barns  and  haystacks 
made  merry  bonfires  for  them  in  the  dead  of  winter.  Grain 
and  cattle  were  destroyed ;  men  stripped  of  their  scalps  and 
left  bleeding  at  their  hearth-stones ;  and  women  and  children 
dragged,  shrieking,  from  the  ruins  of  their  homes  and  the 
corses  of  the  slain,  to  encounter  cold,  fatigue,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  death,  with  their  unfeeling  captors.  In  this  state  of 
things,  De  Vries  applied  to  the  governor  for  soldiers  to  pro 
tect  his  estate,  but  received  only  a  promise. 

"  I  will  go  myself,"  said  the  indignant  patroon  to  his 
friend ;  "  one  arm  without  dishonor  is  worth  more  than  a 
score  of  these  paid  murderers ;  and  though  they  only  obeyed 
orders,  poor  fellows !  I  believe  an  honest  man's  hearth  is 
better  without  them.  Come  with  me,  Lilier,  in  God's  name, 
and  we  two  shall  be  enough  for  Vriesendael." 

A  long  and  unsatisfactory  conversation  with  the  governor 
delayed  the  departure  of  De  Vries  beyond  the  appointed  hour ; 
but,  at  last,  all  was  arranged,  and  the  two  friends  set  off  in  a 
little  boat  together.  The  sun  was  brightly  beautiful,  winter 
though  it  was.  The  trees,  all  decked  out  in  trappings  of  crys 
tal,  set  off  with  brilliants  of  every  hue,  leaned  over  the  bank 


116  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE 

to  see  themselves  in  the  mirror  below ;  and  pencils  of  light, 
seemingly  splintered  by  contact  with  the  cold  air,  scattered 
showers  of  scintillations  on  the  sheets  of  ice  that  bordered  the 
little  sea,  on  the  shivering  water,  and  the  snow-covered  shore. 
Evening  came  on,  and  the  boat,  notwithstanding  a  floating 
block  of  ice  that  now  and  then  threatened  to  upset  it,  shot  like 
a  winged  bird  over  the  crisp  water.  A  dip,  a  glimmer  of  sil 
ver  as  the  moonlight  came  to  kiss  the  uplifted  pinion,  a  broken 
chain  of  pearls  —  and  down  again  went  the  disappointed 
wing,  to  bear  up  with  it  the  same  shattered  treasures,  and 
again  and  again  to  seek  them,  till  that  little  boat,  with  its 
steadily  plying  oars,  became  a  struggling,  living  thing,  bear 
ing  within  it  a  restless  human  spirit.  On  sped  they  thus,  till, 
about  the  time  of  midnight's  coming,  they  shot  into  the  swifter 
current  formed  by  the  mingling  of  the  waters.  Eounding  a 
miniature  cape  covered  with  gigantic  trees,  they  came  sud 
denly  in  sight  of  Vriesendael. 

"  Good  God ! "  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  patroon ;  and, 
leaping  from  the  boat,  he  dashed  through  the  water,  and 
sprang,  sword  in  hand,  upon  the  bank.  Lilier  was  scarce  a 
step  behind  him. 

"Hold,  De  Vries !  stay!  listen  —  listen  to  reason,  De 
Heer!" 

"  Reason  !  and  my  property  on  fire,  my  people  murdered, 
and  perhaps  my  own  family !  Curses  on  the  bloody  policy 
of  Wilhelm  Kieft !  It  is  his  own  hand  that  has  set  fire 
to  Vriesendael." 

A  fearful  conflagration  was  indeed  sweeping  over  the  little 
valley.  The  houses  of  the  tenants,  barns,  haystacks  —  every 
thing  combustible  was  now  in  a  broad  blaze ;  and,  with  the 
crackling  of  the  flames,  the  crash  of  falling  timbers,  and  the 
occasional  discharge  of  fire-arms,  mingled  the  triumphant  yell 
of  the  maddened  and  revengeful  savages.  The  first  impulse 
of  De  Vries  lasted  but  a  moment,  and  then  he  collected  all  the 
energies  of  his  powerful  mind,  and  looked  upon  the  scene  with 
the  eye  of  a  brave  man  accustomed  to  danger,  and  prepared 
to  meet  just  such  a  crisis  as  this,  The  fury  of  the  savages 


NIEUW   NEDERLANDTS.  117 

was  now  all  directed  towards  his  own  dwelling,  a  strong 
block  house  with  embrasures ;  and,  from  the  firing,  it  was 
evident  that  some  of  his  people  had  taken  refuge  there.  If 
this  could  be  reached,  under  his  direction  the  vengeance  of 
the  foe  might  be  baffled ;  and  to  reach  it  unobserved,  and 
effect  an  entrance,  became  now  the  all-important  object. 
Keeping  within  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  they  crept  along, 
nearer  and  nearer  the  glaring  light,  and  nearer  the  yelling 
savages,  treading  down  the  frozen  snow  and  snapping  the 
brittle  twigs  fearlessly ;  for  it  must  have  been  a  heavy  sound 
indeed  that  would  have  attracted  attention  at  that  terrible 
hour.  As  they  passed  a  jagged  rock,  casting  a  deep  shadow 
on  the  ground,  a  light  tread,  scarce  heavier  than  that  of  a 
squirrel,  attracted  the  attention  of  De  Vries  ;  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  he  felt  a  gentle  touch  on  his  shoulder. 

"  White  chief,  stay  !  no  —  no  go  !  Lickquequa  —  he  save ; 
stay  —  stay!" 

There  was  plenty  of  light  to  see  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
Indian  girl,  as  these  words  with  difficulty  broke  from  her 
lips ;  her  warm,  dark  eye,  with  all  its  pleading  earnestness, 
turning  from  one  face  to  the  other ;  timidity,  everything  but 
the  touching  interest  of  a  grateful  heart,  entirely  banished ; 
and  her  whole  countenance  eloquent  with  truth  and  nobleness 
of  purpose.  De  Vries  half  paused  to  answer ;  but  as  he  did 
so,  a  shriek  rang  out  from  his  own  dwelling  —  a  woman's 
voice.  In  the  same  instant  a  glittering  tomahawk  glanced 
past  him ;  there  came  a  savage  yell,  and  two  dark  forms 
sprang  into  the  red  glare  cast  at  his  feet  by  the  burning  build 
ings.  He  heard  the  wild,  terrified  scream  of  the  Indian  girl, 
a  groan,  and  a  crackling  of  the  underbrush  as  of  something 
falling ;  and  then  with  two  or  three  bounds  he  left  the  whole 
group  far  behind  him.  That  other  shriek  !  —  the  voice  was 
dearly  familiar,  and  it  drowned,  for  the  moment,  every  thought 
of  the  mere  friend. 

The  tomahawk,  that  had  caught  the  eye  of  De  Vries,  struck 
the  temple  of  Lilier.  He  reeled,  clutched  with  both  hands  at 
the  vacant  air,  and  plunged  into  the  crusted  snow,  stunned 


118  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE 

and  bleeding.  In  a  moment  his  foes  were  upon  him  in  all 
their  savage  fury ;  but  the  heart  of  a  friend  is  quicker  and 
stronger  than  the  vengeful  hand  of  an  enemy,  even  though 
there  be  a  broadsword  in  it.  The  arms  of  the  grateful  Indian 
girl  were  thrown  about  him  —  a  beautiful  defence ;  and  her 
cheek,  crimsoned  with  his  blood,  rested  protectingly  upon  his 
forehead.  How  earnestly  simple  was  the  tale  she  told,  her 
soul-full  face  looking  up  from  the  hair  all  matted  with  the  red 
gore  !  And  how  eloquently  she  pleaded  for  her  saviour ! 
The  savages  paused,  with  their  hands  uplifted,  clutching  fast 
the  instruments  of  death ;  and  bestowing  a  single  glance  on 
the  girl,  turned  in  astonishment  towards  the  block-house. 
The  firing  had  entirely  ceased,  and  not  a  single  savage  yell 
was  to  be  heard.  In  his  own  opened  door  stood,  strongly 
relieved  by  the  full  light,  the  herculean  figure  of  the  hardy 
and  courageous  patroon ;  and  before  him,  within  arm's  reach, 
an  Indian,  seemingly  engaged  in  a  parley.  The  strange 
silence  also  arrested  the  attention  of  the  girl.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  a  cry  of  joy  broke  from  the  lips,  and  left  them 
parted  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Go ! "  she  said  in  her  own  musical  tongue,  "  go !  it  is 
Lickquequa,  and  the  white  men  are  saved." 

She  was  right.  The  Indian,  whom  De  Vries  had  led  from 
the  fort  on  the  night  of  the  massacre,  had  represented  the 
patroon  as  a  friendly  chief,  who  loved  his  red  neighbors ;  and 
the  Indians  had  already  slung  their  bows  over  their  shoulders, 
and  lowered  their  tomahawks  by  their  sides.  The  two  sav 
ages  looked  again  on  the  scalp  of  the  wounded  man  greedily ; 
but  it  was  half-sheltered  by  the  beautiful  person  of  his  pro 
tectress  ;  and  they  turned  away  and  joined  silently  the  dark 
body  retreating  from  the  besieged  house. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  the  girl  bent  tenderly  over  her 
charge,  putting  her  cheek  close  down  to  his  lips,  to  see  if  she 
could  catch  a  breath  upon  it,  and  trying  to  win,  by  the  pressure 
of  her  slight  fingers,  a  single  answering  flutter  of  the  heart. 
It  came  at  last  —  a  light,  faint  tremor;  and  radiant  was  the 
flash  of  joy  that  lighted  up  her  face,  radiant,  and  yet  half-sub- 


NIEUW    NEDERLANDTS.  119 

dued,  as  though  the  breath  of  a  smile  might  be  too  strong  for 
the  faltering  wing  of  the  half-reluctant  spirit  just  poising 
itself  upon  the  outer  verge  of  life.  Hastily  she  unbuckled  the 
sword  at  his  side,  slid  his  head  from  her  knees,  and  stole  up 
the  hill-side,  among  jagged  rocks  and  broken  wood  and 
crusted  snow,  till  her  practised  eye  recognized  the  spot  she 
sought.  Then  kneeling  down  and  digging  with  her  unwonted 
weapon  into  the  bank,  she  labored  patiently  until  she  reached 
the  ground.  It  was  covered  with  green  leaves ;  arid  snatch 
ing  a  handful  hastily,  she  hurried  back  with  them  to  her 
charge.  Again  raising  his  head  to  her  bosom,  she  washed 
the  wound  with  the  soft  snow  gathered  from  beneath  the 
crust ;  and,  warming  the  leaves  between  her  hands,  laid  them 
gently  upon  it,  and  bound  them  with  her  own  girdle  of  wam 
pum.  Then  removing  the  mantle  from  her  shoulders,  she 
folded  it  softly  about  his ;  and  now  clasping  his  icy  hands, 
now  watching  the  uncertain  breath  that  seemed  every  moment 
ready  to  flit  from  his  lip,  she  bent  over  him  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother  over  the  cradle  of  her  first-born.  And  her  care  was 
rewarded;  for,. long  before  De  Vries  could  leave  his  alarmed 
family  and  go  out  in  search  of  the  corse  of  his  friend,  the 
languid  eyes  of  the  awakened  Frenchman  had  turned  help 
lessly  to  the  dark,  tearful  ones  watching  his  slumbers  ;  and  he 
had  closed  them  again,  more  than  content  with  his  resting- 
place.  He  slept,  to  dream  of  that  same  beautiful  face ;  and 
she  looked  upon  his  closed  lids  and  dreamed  too  ;  such  dreams 
as  our  first  mother  must  have  had  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
on  Eden.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  poor  girl  to  resign 
her  charge  when  the  white  men  came  and  took  him  from  her ; 
for  she  felt  as  though  she  had  a  claim  upon  that  life  which 
her  tenderness  had  won  back  to  earth  after  the  last  cord  was 
loosened  and  the  spirit's  wing  lifted  heavenwards. 

Two  centuries  have  passed,  and  the  colors  of  by-gone  events 
are  so  blinded  and  dimmed,  and  in  some  instances  glossed 
over  by  modern  falsehood,  that  little  more  than  the  crimson 
may  be  recognized.  The  heart  of  truth,  the  eye  of  love,  and 


120  TWO   NIGHTS   IN   THE   NIETJW   NEDERLANDTS. 

the  brow  of  beauty,  are  things  that  fade  from  the  earth,  to  write 
their  names  on  the  pages  of  heaven.  So  is  a  holy  lesson 
lost ;  for  though  truth  and  purity  yet  dwell  with  us,  there  is 
a  poison  in  the  breath  of  the  world  that  keeps  them  forever 
hidden.  Thus  two  beings  who  lived  long 

"  'Mid  trees  and  flowers  and  waterfalls, 

And  fountains  bubbling  from  the  moss, 
And  leaves  that  quiver  with  delight, 
As  from  their  shade  the  warbler  calls," 

who  lived  and  loved  in  a  luxurious  wilderness,  and  passed  in 
the  golden  autumn  of  their  days,  like  the  beautiful,  rich  things 
about  them,  can  find  no  historian.  Let  their  memories  rest 
with  them  —  the  halo  has  fallen  on  some  heart.  Yet  would 
any  look  upon  a  quiet,  simple  picture,  let  them  spend  a  day 
among  the  Helderburgs.  I  have  seen  there  a  doting  old  lady, 
who  loves  to  talk  of  the  flowery  dell  where  she  was  born,  and 
the  happy  generations  that  have  moved  among  those  flowers. 
If  you  could  induce  her  to  pass  down  the  river  with  you,  she 
would  point  you  to  an  ancient  tree,  beneath  whose  young 
shade  a  French  Huguenot,  of  high  birth  and  higher  virtues, 
plighted  his  faith  to  the  daughter  of  a  proud  Sagamore  living 
among  the  hills.  And  the  old  lady  loves  well  to  boast  of  the 
French  and  Indian  blood  in  her  veins. 


121 


LUCY  DUTTON. 

IT  was  an  October  morning,  warm  and  sunny,  but  with 
even  its  sunshine  subdued  into  a  mournful  softness,  and  its 
gorgeous  drapery  chastened  by  a  touch  of  the  dreamy  atmos 
phere  into  a  sympathy  with  sorrow.  And  there  was  a  sor 
rowing  one  who  needed  sympathy  on  that  still,  holy  morning 
—  the  sympathy  of  the  great  Heart  which  beats  in  Nature's 
bosom — for  she  could  hope  no  other.  Poor  Lucy  Button ! 

There  was  a  funeral  that  morning — a  stranger  would  have 
judged  by  the  gathering  that  the  great  man  of  the  village  was 
dead,  and  all  that  crowd  had  come  out  to  do  his  ashes  honor 
— but  it  was  not  so.  Yet  the  little,  old-fashioned  church  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  Some  there  were  that  turned  their  eyes 
devoutly  to  the  holy  man  that  occupied  the  sacred  desk,  receiv 
ing  from  his  lips  the  words  of  life ;  some  looked  upon  the 
little  coffin  that  stood,  covered  with  its  black  pall,  upon  a  table 
directly  below  him,  and  perhaps  thought  of  their  own  mortal 
ity,  or  that  of  their  bright  little  ones ;  while  many,  very  many, 
gazed  with  cold  curiosity  at  the  solitary  mourner  occupying 
the  front  pew.  This  was  a  young  creature,  in  the  very  spring 
time  of  life,  —  a  frail,  erring  being,  whose  only  hope  was  in  Him 
who  said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee — go,  and  sin  no  more." 
There  was  a  weight  of  shame  upon  her  head,  and  woe  upon 
her  heart,  that  together  made  the  bereaved  young  mother  cower 
almost  to  the  earth  before  the  prying  eyes  that  came  to  look 
upon  her  in  her  distressing  humiliation.  Oh  !  it  was  a  piti 
ful  sight!  that  crushed,  helpless  creature's  agony. 

But  the  year  before,  and  this  same  lone  mourner  was  con 
sidered  a  sweet,  beautiful  child,  whom  everybody  was  bound 
to  protect  and  love ;  because,  but  that  she  was  the  pet  lamb 
of  a  doting  old  woman,  she  was  without  friend  and  protector. 

VOL.  n.  11 


122  LUCY    BUTTON. 

Lucy  Dutton  was  the  last  blossom  on  a  tree  which  had  boasted 
many  fair  ones.  When  the  grave  opened  to  one  after  another 
of  that  doomed  family,  till  none  but  this  bright,  beautiful  bud 
was  left,  she  became  the  all  in  all,  and  with  the  doting  affec 
tion  of  age  was  she  cherished.  When  poverty  came  to  Granny 
Button's  threshold,  she  drew  her  one  priceless  jewel  to  her 
heart,  and  laughed  at  poverty.  When  sorrows  of  every  kind 
compassed  her  about,  and  the  sun  went  down  in  her  heaven 
of  hope,  another  rose  in  a  holier  heaven  of  love ;  and  Lucy 
Dutton  was  this  fountain  of  love-born  light.  The  old  lady 
and  her  pretty  darling  occupied  a  small,  neat  cottage,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  with  a  garden  attached  to  it,  in  which  the  child 
flitted  all  day  long,  like  a  glad  spirit  among  the  flowers.  And, 
next  to  her  child-idol,  the  simple-hearted  old  lady  loved  those 
flowers,  with  a  love  which  pure  natures  ever  bear  to  the  beau 
tiful.  It  was  by  these,  and  the  fruit  produced  by  the  little 
garden,  that  the  twain  lived.  Many  a  fine  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  door  of  the  humble  cottage,  and  bright  ladies  and 
dashing  gentlemen  sauntered  beneath  the  shade,  while  the 
rosy  fingers  of  Lucy  adjusted  bouquets  for  them,  her  bright 
lips  wreathed  with  smiles,  and  her  sunny  eye  turning  to  her 
grandmother  at  the  placing  of  every  stem,  as  though  for  appro 
bation  of  her  taste.  Not  a  child  in  all  the  neigborhood  was 
so  happy  as  Lucy.  Not  a  child  in  all  the  neighborhood  was 
so  beautiful,  so  gentle,  and  so  good.  And  nobody  ever  thought 
of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Though  she  grew  to  the 
height  of  her  tallest  geranium,  and  her  form  assumed  womanly 
proportions,  nobody,  not  even  the  rustic  beaux  around  her, 
thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Lucy  was  so  artless, 
and  loved  her  dear  old  grandmother  so  truly,  that  the  two 
were  somehow  connected  in  people's  minds,  and  it  seemed  as 
impossible  that  the  girl  should  grow  older,  as  that  the  old  lady 
should  grow  younger. 

Lucy  was  just  booked  for  fifteen,  w^th  the  seal  of  innocence 
upon  her  heart,  and  a  rose-leaf  on  her  cheek,  when  "  the 
Herman  property,"  a  fine  summer  residence  that  had  been  for 
years  unoccupied,  was  purchased  by  a  widow  lady  from  the 


LUCY    BUTTON.  123 

metropolis.  She  came  to  Alderbrook  early  in  the  spring, 
accompanied  by  her  only  son,  to  visit  her  new  possessions, 
and  finding  the  spot  exceedingly  pleasant,  she  determined  to 
remain  there.  And  so  Lucy  met  the  young  metropolitan; 
and  Lucy  was  beautiful,  and  trusting,  and  thoughtless ;  and 
he  was  gay,  selfish,  and  profligate.  Needs  the  story  to  be 
told? 

When  the  Howards  went  away,  Lucy  awoke  from  her 
dream.  She  looked  about  her,  and  upon  herself,  with  the 
veil  taken  from  her  eyes ;  and  then  she  turned  from  all  she 
had  ever  loved ;  for,  in  the  breaking  up  of  those  dreams,  was 
broken  poor  Lucy's  heart. 

Nay,  censor,  Lucy  was  a  child — consider  how  very  young, 
how  very  untaught  —  oh  !  her  innocence  was  no  match  for 
the  sophistry  of  a  gay  city  youth  !  And  young  Howard  stole 
her  unthinking  heart  the  first  day  he  looked  in  to  purchase  a 
bouquet.  Poor,  poor  Lucy ! 

Before  the  autumn  leaves  fell,  Granny  Button's  bright  pet 
knelt  in  her  little  chamber,  and  upon  her  mother's  grave,  and 
down  by  the  river-side,  where  she  had  last  met  Justin  Howard, 
and  prayed  for  death.  Sweet,  joyous  Lucy  Button,  asking 
to  lay  her  bright  head  in  the  grave  !  Spring  came,  and  shame 
was  stamped  upon  the  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Lucy 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  refused  to  look  upon  any 
thing  but  her  baby ;  and  the  old  lady  shrunk,  like  a  shrivelled 
leaf,  before  this  last  and  greatest  of  her  troubles.  The  neigh 
borhood  had  its  usual  gossip.  There  were  taunts,  and  sneers, 
and  coarse  jests,  and  remarks  severely  true;  but  only  a  Jittle, 
a  very  little,  pity.  Lucy  bore  all  this  well,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  deserved ;  but  she  had  worse  than  this  to  bear.  Every 
day  she  knelt  by  the  bed  of  the  one  being  who  had  doted  upon 
her  from  infancy,  and  begged  her  blessing,  but  in  vain. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  had  laid  you  in  the  coffin,  with  your  dead 
mother,  when  all  around  me  said  that  the  breath  had  passed 
from  you  ! "  was  the  unvarying  reply  ;  "  then  my  gray  hairs 
might  have  gone  down  to  the  grave  without  dishonor  from  the 


124  LUCY    BUTTON. 

child  that  I  took  from  the  gate  of  death,  and  bore  for  years 
upon  my  bosom.  Would  you  had  died,  Lucy  ! " 

And  Lucy  would  turn  away  her  head,  and,  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart,  echo,  "  Ay  !  would  that  I  had  died !  "  Then 
she  would  take  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and,  while  the  scalding 
tears  bathed  its  unconscious  face,  pray  God  to  "forgive  the 
wicked  wish,  and  preserve  her  life  for  the  sake  of  this  sinless 
heir  to  shame.  And  sometimes  Lucy  would  smile — not  that 
calm,  holy  smile  which  usually  lingers  about  an  infant's  cradle, 
but  a  faint,  sicklied  play  of  the  love-light  within,  as  though 
the  mother's  fond  heart  were  ashamed  of  its  own  throbbings. 
But,  before  the  autumn  passed,  Lucy  Button  was  fearfully 
stricken.  Death  came  !  She  laid  her  last  comfort  from  her 
bosom  into  the  coffin,  and  they  were  now  bearing  it  to  the 
grave,  —  she,  the  only  mourner.  It  mattered  but  little  that 
the  grandmother's  forgiveness  and  blessing  came  now ;  Lucy 
scarce  knew  the  difference  between  these  words  and  those  last 
spoken  ;  and  most  earnestly  did  she  answer,  "  Would,  would 
that  I  had  died  ! "  Poor,  poor  Lucy  ! 

She  sat  all  through  the  sermon,  and  the  singing,  and  the 
prayer,  with  her  head  bowed  upon  the  side  of  the  pew ;  and 
when  at  last  they  bore  the  coffin  to  the  door,  and  the  congre 
gation  began  to  move  forward,  she  did  not  raise  it  until  the 
kind  clergyman  came  and  led  her  out  to  take  a  last  look  at 
her  dead  boy.  Then  she  laid  her  thin,  pale  face  against  his 
within  the  coffin,  and  sobbed  aloud.  And  now  some  began 
to  pity  the  stricken  girl,  and  whisper  to  their  neighbors  that 
she  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  Still  none  came 
forward  to  whisper  the  little  word  which  might  have  brought 
healing,  but  the  holy  man  whose  duty  it  was.  He  took  her 
almost  forcibly  from  the  infant  clay,  and  strove  to  calm  her, 
while  careless  eyes  came  to  look  upon  that  dearer  to  her  than 
her  own  heart's  blood.  Finally,  curiosity  was  satisfied ;  they 
closed  the  coffin,  screwed  down  the  lid,  spread  the  black  cloth 
over  it,  and  the  procession  began  to  form.  Minister  Green 
left  the  side  of  the  mourner,  and  took  his  station  in  advance, 
accompanied  by  some  half  dozen  others ;  then  four  men  fol- 


LUCY    BUTTON.  125 

lowed,  bearing  the  light  coffin  in  their  hands,  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  upon  the  mourner.  She  did  not  move. 

"  Pass  on,  madam,"  said  Squire  Field,  who  always  acted 
the  part  of  marshal  on  such  occasions;  and,  though  little 
given  to  the  weakness  of  feeling,  he  now  softened  his  voice 
as  much  as  it  would  bear  softening.  "  This  way — right  be 
hind  the  —  the  —  pass  on!" 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment,  and  many  a  generous  one  longed 
to  step  forward  and  give  her  an  arm ;  but  selfish  prudence  for 
bade.  One  bright  girl,  who  had  been  Lucy's  playmate  from 
the  cradle,  but  had  not  seen  her  face  for  many  months,  drew 
impulsively  towards  her ;  but  she  met  a  reproving  eye  from 
the  crowd,  and  only  whispering,  "  I  do  pity  you,  Lucy ! "  she 
shrunk  back,  and  sobbed  almost  as  loud  as  her  erring  friend. 
Lucy  started  at  the  words,  and,  gazing  wildly  round  her,  tot 
tered  on  after  the  coffin. 

Loud,  and  slow,  and  fearfully  solemn,  stroke  after  stroke, 
the  old  church-bell  doled  forth  its  tale;  and  slowly  and 
solemnly  the  crowd  moved  on  with  a  measured  tread,  though 
there  was  many  a  careless  eye  and  many  a  smiling  lip,  turn 
ing  to  other  eyes  and  other  lips,  with  something  like  a  jest 
between  them.  On  moved  the  crowd  after  the  mourner; 
while  she,  with  irregular,  labored  step,  her  arms  crossed  on 
her  bosom,  and  her  head  bent  to  the  same  resting-place,  just 
kept  pace  with  the  body  of  her  dead  boy.  Winding  through 
the  opened  gate  into  the  church-yard,  they  went  trailing  slow 
ly  through  the  long,  dead  grass,  while  some  of  the  children 
crept  slily  from  the  procession,  to  pick  up  the  tufts  of  scarlet 
and  yellow  leaves,  which  made  this  place  of  graves  strangely 
gay ;  and  several  young  people  wandered  off,  arm  in  arm, 
pausing  as  they  went,  to  read  the  rude  inscriptions  lettered  on 
the  stones.  On  went  the  procession,  away  to  the  farthermost 
corner,  where  slept  the  stranger  and  the  vagabond.  Here  a 
little  grave  had  been  dug,  and  the  coffin  was  now  set  down 
beside  it,  while  the  long  procession  circled  slowly  round. 
Several  went  up  and  looked  into  the  dark,  damp  cradle  of  the 
dead  child ;  one  observed  to  his  neighbor  that  it  was  very 

VOL.  IL          11^ 


126  LUCY    BUTTON. 

shallow ;  and  another  said  that  Tom  Jones  always  slighted  his 
work  when  there  was  nobody  to  see  to  it ;  anyhow,  it  was  not 
much  matter,  the  child  would  stay  buried ;  and  another  let 
drop  a  jest,  a  hard,  but  not  very  witty  one,  though  it  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  smothered  laugh.  All  this  passed  quietly ;  noth 
ing  was  spoken  above  a  low  murmur ;  but  Lucy  heard  it  all ; 
and,  as  she  heard  and  remembered,  what  a  repulsive  thing 
seemed  to  her  the  human  heart !  Poor  Lucy  Button  i 

Minister  Green  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave  and  said  a 
prayer,  while  Lucy  leaned  against  a  sickly -looking  tree,  alone, 
and  pressed  her  cold  hands  against  her  temples,  and  wondered 
if  she  should  ever  pray  again — if  God  would  hear  her  if  she 
should.  Then  they  laid  the  little  coffin  upon  ropes,  and 
gently  lowered  it.  The  grave  was  too  short,  or  the  men  were 
careless,  for  there  was  a  harsh  grating  against  the  hard  earth, 
which  made  Lucy  start  and  extend  her  arms ;  but  she  instant 
ly  recollected  herself,  and,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  over  her 
mouth,  lest  her  agony  should  make  itself  heard,  she  tried  to 
stand  calmly.  Then  a  handful  of  straw  was  thrown  upon  the 
coffin,  and  immediately  a  shovelful  of  earth  followed.  Oh ! 
that  first  sinking  of  the  cold  clod  upon  the  bosom  we  have 
loved !  What  a  fearful,  shivering  sensation,  does  it  send  to 
the  heart  and  along  the  veins !  And  then  the  benumbing 
faintness  which  follows,  as  though  our  own  breath  were  strug 
gling  up  through  that  damp  covering  of  earth  !  Lucy  gasped 
and  staggered,  and  then  she  twined  her  arm  about  the  body 
of  the  little  tree,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  its  rough  bark, 
and  strove  hard  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 

Some  thought  the  men  were  very  long  in  filling  up  the 
grave,  but  Lucy  thought  nothing  about  it.  She  did  not,  after 
that  first  shovelful,  hear  the  earth  as  it  fell ;  and  when,  after 
all  was  done  and  the  sods  of  withered  grass  had  been  laid  on, 
Minister  Green  came  to  tell  her,  she  did  not  hear  his  voice. 
When  she  did,  she  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  hollowed 
temples,  looked  vacantly  into  his  face,  and  shook  her  head. 
Others  came  up  to  her — a  good-natured  man  who  had  been 
kind  to  her  grandmother;  then  the  deacon's  wife,  followed  ly 


LUCY    DUTTON.  127 

two  or  three  other  women ;  but  Lucy  only  smiled  and  shook 
her  head.  Glances  full  of  troubled  mystery  passed  from  one 
to  another ;  there  was  an  alarmed  look  on  many  faces,  which 
those  more  distant  seemed  to  comprehend;  and  still  others 
came  to  speak  to  Lucy.  It  was  useless  —  she  could  find  no 
meaning  in  their  words — the  star  of  intellect  had  gone  out — 
the  temple  was  darkened.  Poor,  poor  Lucy  Dutton  ! 

They  bore  her  home — for  she  was  passive  and  helpless — 
home  to  the  sick  old  grandmother,  who  laid  her  withered 
hand  on  those  bright  locks,  and  kissed  the  cold  cheek,  and 
took  her  to  her  bosom,  as  though  she  had  been  an  infant. 
And  Lucy  smiled,  and  talked  of  playing  by  the  brook,  and 
chasing  the  runaway  bees,  and  of  toys  for  her  baby-house, 
and  wondered  why  they  were  all  weeping,  particularly  dear 
grandmamma,  who  ought  to  be  so  happy.  But  this  lasted 
only  a  few  days,  and  then  another  grave  was  made,  and  yet 
another,  in  the  poor's  corner ;  and  the  grandmother  and  her 
shattered  idol  slept  together.  The  grave  is  a  blessed  couch 
and  pillow  to  the  wretched.  Rest  thee  there,  poor  Lucy ! 


128 


MYSTERY. 

LIFE  is  all  a  mystery.  The  drawing  of  the  breath,  the 
beating  of  the  pulse,  the  flowing  of  the  blood,  none  can  com 
prehend.  We  know  that  we  are  sentient  beings,  gifted  \vitn 
strange  powers,  both  intellectual  and  physical;  capable  of  act 
ing,  thinking,  feeling,  comparing,  reasoning,  and  judging; 
but  we  do  not  know  by  what  means  we  perform  these  differ 
ent  functions,  not  even  so  much  as  to  comprehend  how  the 
simplest  thought  is  originated.  The  mind  of  an  idiot — of 
one  of  the  lower  animals  even — is  a  study  too  deep  for  us. 
"  The  goings  forth  of  the  wind,"  the  "  balancing  of  the  clouds," 
the  living  leaf  bursting  from  the  dead  brown  stem,  all  pro 
cesses  of  nature  however  common  or*simple,  are  beyond  the 
grasp  of  human  intellect.  Each  of  us  is  a  mystery  to  self 
and  to  the  friends  that  look  upon  us.  We  raise  an  arm,  and 
we  know  that  in  that  simple  movement  a  thousand  little 
assistants  are  required ;  but  we  do  not  fully  understand  the 
philosophy  of  their  application ;  and  we  are  totally  ignorant 
of  the  grand  principle,  without  which  they  are  cold,  unfeeling 
clay.  Our  friends,  too,  are  complete  mysteries  to  us.  They 
are  always  acting  as  we  were  sure  they  would  not ;  and  they 
move  about  complete  embodiments  of  mystery ;  with  hearts 
almost  wholly  unexplored,  heads  full  of  strange  theories,  and 
natures  subject  to  incomprehensible  impulses  and  caprices. 
Within,  without,  around,  we  cajL  comprehend  nothing ;  we 
cannot  solve  even  the  simplest  thesis  of  nature,  whether  writ 
ten  on  the  human  constitution,  or  this  earth  builded  by  the 
great  Architect  for  our  use.  The  past  to  us  is  chaos ;  the 
present  is  a  waking  dream,  in  which  "  seeing  we  see  not,  and 
hearing  we  hear  not;"  and  the  future  is  wrapped  in  the  deep 
est,  the  most  impenetrable  obscurity.  We  know  neither  how 


MYSTERY.  129 

nor  for  what  purpose  we  exist ;  nor  what  is  to  be  the  destiny 
of  that  principle  within  us  which  every  heart-throb  proclaims 
to  be  eternal.  When  we  pause  to  think,  our  own  shadows 
may  well  alarm  us ;  and  when  we  turn  our  dim,  weak  eyes 
on  our  own  ignorance,  even  to  our  partial  selves  so  palpable, 
we  shall  not  dare  to  sneer  at  the  wildest  vagary  that  the  hu 
man  mind  has  ever  engendered.  Sneer !  why,  what  know 
we,  poor,  puny,  imbecile  creatures  that  we  are !  of  truth  or 
falsehood,  save  that  moral  truth  which  stamps  us  the  offspring 
of  the  Eternal;  that  unswerving  trust  which  is  our  only 
safety  —  our  anchor  while  drifting  on  these  dark,  unknown 
waters  ?  There  is  none  to  solve  the  deep  mystery  of  the  things 
about  us ;  but  we  feel  in  the  darkness  the  clasp  of  a  strong 
Hand.  Oh,  may  we  never  strive  to  cast  that  Hand  from  us  ! 
In  the  far,  far  distance  burns  one  Star.  Oh,  may  we  never  raise 
a  cloud  between  its  light  and  our  bewildered  eyes  !  May  we 
never,  never  forget,  in  the  midst  of  the  mystery  by  which  we 
are  encompassed,  that  "  we  are  not  our  own,"  that  we  are  not 
gifted  with  the  power  of  guiding  ourselves ;  and  may  we 
yield  the  trust  of  childhood  to  the  sure  foot,  the  strong  arm, 
and  the  all-seeing  eye  of  Him  who  made  us  what  we  are, 
and  is  leading  us  to  the  place  where  we  may  learn  what  we 
have  been  and  shall  be. 


130 


THE    PRIEST'S    SOLILOQUY. 

AN    EXTRACT. 

IT  is  even  so,  thought  the  good  old  man,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  the  misguided  misanthrope ;  this  is  a  beautiful  world 
of  ours,  but  it  is  the  gilded  cage  of  many  a  fluttering  spirit 
that,  nevertheless,  would  shrink  from  freedom  if  it  were 
offered.  Keyling  is  miserable,  more  miserable  than  the  poor 
wretch  crouching  amid  rags,  and  filth,  and  loathsomeness, 
(for  such  suffering  can  bear  no  comparison  with  mental  ago 
ny,)  and  yet  he  knows  not  why.  What  matters  it  to  him 
that  the  earth  is  green,  and  the  heavens  surpassingly  magnifi 
cent  ?  He  knows  that  the  impress  of  his  foot  will  ere  long 
disappear  from  the  one,  and  his  eye  close  upon  the  other. 
He  knows  that  the  flowers  will  bloom,  the  birds  sing ;  that 
summer  will  flush  the  fields,  and  winter  bring  in  turn  its 
peculiar  attractions,  when  his  heart  is  pulseless  and  his  tongue 
mute ;  but  he  does  not  know  that  in  the  dissevering  of  the  sil 
ver  cord  is  gained  the  freedom  for  which  the  spirit  pants.  This 
world  is  too  narrow  for  his  soul  to  expand  in,  and  he  feels 
cramped  and  chained  ;  yet,  if  the  door  of  his  cage  were  flung 
open,  he  would  tremble  at  sight  of  the  unknown  space  beyond, 
and  would  not  venture  out,  but  cling  to  the  gilded  wires  until 
torn  away  by  the  resistless  hand  of  death.  Earth  never  sat 
isfied  an  immortal  mind  ;  the  "  living  soul,"  which  is  nothing 
less  than  the  breathing  of  Deity  himself,  can  be  satisfied  but 
with  infinity — infinity  of  life,  action,  and  knowledge.  Its 
own  feeble  glimmer  is  enough  for  the  fire-fly ;  and  its  wing 
and  voice,  with  the  free  heavens  and  beautiful  earth,  for  the 
bird ;  they  were  formed  by  the  Almighty's  hand,  but  their 
life  is  not  an  emanation  of  his  life,  and  their  little  spirits  "  go 
downward  to  the  earth."  But  what  can  satisfy  the  deathless 


THE  PRIEST'S  SOLILOQUY.  131 

soul  immured  in  a  clay  prison,  with  but  clouded  views  of  the 
finite  beauties  around  it,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  its  divine 
origin  and  final  destiny  ?  No  wonder  Keyling  is  miserable  ; 
for  he  is  blinder  than  the  untutored  savage  who  "  sees  God 
in  clouds  and  hears  him  in  the  wind."  For  years  he  has 
been  struggling  for  a  meteor ;  while  it  receded,  he  never 
paused  or  wearied ;  but,  when  his  hand  closed  over  it  and  he 
grasped  a  shadow,  the  truth  dawned  upon  his  spirit ;  and,  in 
the  bitterness  of  its  first  perception,  he  cursed  himself  and 
cursed  his  destiny.  He  hates  the  world,  and  himself  and 
mankind,  and  talks  madly  of  the  death-damps,  the  grave,  and 
the  slimy  earth-worm,  as  though  superior  to  their  horrors ; 
but  yet  he  is  in  love  with  life,  as  much  as  the  veriest  devotee 
of  pleasure  in  existence.  It  is  this  panting  for  immortality, 
this  longing  for  a  wider  range,  that  makes  him  sometimes 
imagine,  in  his  impatience,  that  he  is  anxious  to  lie  down  to 
his  eternal  rest  and  never  wake.  If  his  spirit  could  but 
understand  its  heavenward  destiny,  if  he  would  learn  to  look 
beyond  these  narrow  boundaries,  if,  in  despising  the  worth 
less,  he  would  properly  estimate  the  high  and  imperishable, 
poor  Keyling  would  find  that  even  on  earth  there  are  inex 
haustible  sources  of  happiness.  Alas  for  the  weakness  of 
human  nature  !  What  a  very  wreck  a  man  becomes  when 
left  to  his  own  blindness  and  folly !  The  loftier  the  intellect, 
the  higher  its  aspirations,  and  the  more  comprehensive  its 
faculties,  the  lower  does  it  descend  in  darkness,  if  the  torch 
of  religion  has  never  been  lighted  within.  It  is  misery  to 
feel  the  soul  capable  of  infinite  expansion,  and  allow  it  a 
range  no  wider  than  this  fading,  ever-changing  earth ;  to  taste 
the  bliss  of  life,  mingled  with  the  bitter  draught  of  death ;  to 
love  the  high  and  holy,  and  never  look  toward  the  fountain 
of  holiness  —  deep,  deep,  and  mingling  in  its  pure  tide  the 
richness  of  all  wisdom  and  knowledge.  Oh,  how  depressing 
must  be  the  loneliness  of  such  souls !  How  awful  the  deso 
lation  !  Too  high  for  earth  and  knowing  naught  of  heaven ! 
Even  the  good  in  their  natures  is  perverted,  and  adds  to  the 
chaos  of  darkness  within.  When  they  see  the  strong  oppress 


132  THE  PRIEST'S  SOLILOQUY. 

the  weak,  vice  triumph  over  virtue,  innocence  borne  down  by 
care  and  poverty,  and  guilt  elevated  to  a  throne,  they  say 
this  is  enough  to  know  of  Him  who  holds  the  reins  of  such 
a  government;  and,  in  their  folly,  deem  themselves  more 
merciful  than  the  Father  of  mercies.  Making  this  world  the 
theatre  of  life,  and  the  years  of  man  its  sum,  they  fix  upon 
this  inconceivably  small  point  in  comparison  with  the  whole ; 
and,  from  such  a  limited  view,  dare  to  tax  the  Ruler  of  the 
universe  with  injustice.  Unable  to  comprehend  the  policy 
of  the  divine  government,  and  misapprehending  the  object 
and  tendency  of  earthly  suffering,  they  lose  themselves  in  the 
mazes  of  sophistry,  and  become  entangled  in  the  net  their  own 
hands  have  spread. 

Poor  Keyling !  he  has  drunk  of  the  poisonous  tide  of  infi 
delity,  and  every  thought  is  contaminated  the  moment  it 
springs  up  into  the  heart.  This  gives  its  coloring  to  the 
earth  and  sky,  to  life  and  death.  It  breaks  the  chain  that 
binds  the  world  of  nature  to  its  Creator,  dissolves  the  strong 
est  fascination  of  the  beautiful  things  around  us,  and  renders 
meaningless  the  lessons  traced  by  the  finger  of  God  upon 
everything  he  has  made.  It  removes  the  prop  from  the  bend 
ing  reed,  and  the  sunlight  from  the  heart ;  it  binds  down  the 
wing  of  hope,  and  turns  the  upraised  eye  earthward ;  it  offers 
only  "  the  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief,"  and  points  the 
fluttering  soul  to  a  grave  of  darkness  and  oblivion. 


133 


AUNT   ALICE. 

To  people  who  look  on  one  side  of  Aunt  Alice's  character, 
she  appears  a  saint ;  sinless  as  those  who  have  gone  home  to 
heaven ;  a  ministering  angel  of  light.  To  people  who  look 
on  the  reverse  of  the  picture,  and  see  spots  of  this  shining 
through,  all  distorted  by  the  unhappy  medium,  she  is  a 
miserable,  canting  hypocrite.  Both  are  wrong ;  Aunt  Alice 
is  neither,  though  much  nearer  saintship.  A  third  class  of 
people,  having  a  wholesome  contempt  for  extremes,  and 
intending  to  be  very  generous  in  their  estimate,  call  Aunt 
Alice  a  singular  character;  and,  moreover,  affirm  that  she 
loves  to  be  singular,  and  pursues  her  somewhat  eccentric 
course  more  for  the  sake  of  attracting  attention  and  exciting 
remark,  than  from  a  love  of  it.  They,  too,  are  wide  of  the 
mark.  That  Aunt  Alice  performs  a  vast  amount  of  good  is 
not  to  be  denied ;  and  that  she  goes  about,  her  left  hand  often 
destroying  her  right  hand's  work,  is  equally  certain. 

Aunt  Alice  is  a  widow ;  and,  all  her  children  being  mar 
ried,  she  has  nothing  to  detain  her  from  what  she  considers 
her  duties.  Is  there  a  sick  bed  in  all  the  neighborhood,  she 
is  there.  Her  own  hand  administers  the  cordial ;  her  own 
bosom  supports  the  sufferer's  head  ;  her  own  lips  whisper  con 
solation,  and  breathe  balm  upon  the  wounded  spirit.  Then, 
Aunt  Alice  is  a  ministering  angel ;  and,  to  see  her  untiring 
devotion,  her  ready  self-sacrifice,  and  her  humble  piety,  you 
would  wonder  that  she  was  left  upon  the  earth  where  she  had 
not  a  sister  spirit.  She  holds  the  dying  infant  in  her  arms, 
receives  its  last  sigh,  wraps  it  in  its  little  shroud,  and  lays  it  in 
the  coffin.  Then  she  turns  to  the  bereaved  mother,  and  tells 
her  that  her  cherished  bud  is  only  transplanted  to  be  better 
watched  over  and  cared  for ;  and  Aunt  Alice  never  goes  away 
until  she  sees  a  clear  light  breaking  through  the  tears  in  the 

VOL.  n.  12 


134  AUNT    ALICE. 

mourner's  eye,  and  knows  that  the  stricken  spirit  has  learned 
to  love  the  Hand  that  but  bore  its  treasure  before  it  to  Para 
disc.  But  it  is  only  to  the  poor  —  the  wretchedly,  miserably 
poor  —  that  Aunt  Alice  goes  thus.  It  is  only  to  them  that  her 
hand  is  extended,  and  her  purse  and  heart  opened.  The  rich 
have  many  friends  ;  she  knows  they  do  not  need  her,  and  she 
cannot  waste  her  precious  time  upon  mere  civilities.  So 
deeply  is  this  impressed  upon  the  mind  of  Aunt  Alice,  that 
she  too  often  neglects  the  lesser  charities  of  life  —  the  ready 
smile,  the  encouraging  word,  and  the  kindly  glance,  so 
expressive  of  sympathetic  interest  —  and  thus  incurs  distrust, 
and  builds  up  a  high  wall  for  her  own  influence  to  pass  over 
before  it  can  reach  the  heart  of  the  worldling.  Moreover,  she 
has  seen  so  much  of  real  suffering  —  that  which  tears  the 
heart,  shrivels  up  the  muscles,  and  withers  the  spirit  within 
the  bosom  —  that  the  sorrow  which  cannot  be  traced  back  to  a 
cause,  and  an  adequate  one,  (some  real,  palpable  cause,  whose 
length,  breadth,  and  entire  bearing  she  can  measure,)  meets 
no  sympathy  from  her.  She  feels  a  contempt  for  those  minor  , 
ills  born  of  delicacy  and  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  She 
does  not  know  how  deeply  the  cankering  iron  may  eat  into 
the  spirit,  when  she  cannot  see  it  protruding  beyond ;  she  does 
not  know  that  the  Angel  of  Woe  has  a  seat  which  he  some 
times  occupies  by  every  hearth-stone,  and  that  his  visitation  is 
always  heaviest  when  he  comes  disguised.  So  Aunt  Alice 
never  pities  those  who  cannot  write  down  some  fearful  calam 
ity  ;  never  even  does  she  pity  those  who  can,  and  are  not  wil 
ling  to  deserve  her  pity  by  opening  to  her  its  most  secret  fold. 
Sensitiveness  she  calls  pride,  and  pride  is  one  of  the  faults 
which  she  never  forgives.  Yet,  Aunt  Alice  is  very  forgiving ; 
her  charity,  indeed,  "  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins."  The 
most  sinful,  those  who  have  widest  erred  —  the  poor,  forsaken 
victim  of  shame  and  misery  and  guilt,  she  ever  takes  by  the 
hand,  whispering  kindly,  "  This  is  the  way ;  walk  ye  in  it." 
Among  those  whom  crime  has  made  outcasts  from  society  she 
.abors  unceasingly ;  and  many  rescued  ones  can  point  to  her 
as  the  parent  of  their  better  natures.  Yet  there  is  no  one  so 


AUNT   ALICE.  135 

severe  on  foibles  as  Aunt  Alice.  Does  her  neighbor  wear  a 
gayer  bonnet  than  pleases  her  taste  ;  is  any  one  so  dazzled  by 
the  fascinations  of  society  as  to  err  in  world-loving ;  are  men 
entangled  in  the  net  of  pleasure  and  lured  to  sin,  instead  of 
being  pushed  into  it  by  want  and  woe  ;  for  them  Aunt  Alice 
has  no  sympathy. 

Yet,  again,  a  current  saying  among  the  poor  is,  that  the 
good  lady  has  no  clasp  upon  her  purse ;  it  is  told  by  others 
that  she  has  a  hard  and  griping  hand.  In  truth,  Aunt  Alice 
values  money  highly ;  but  she  values  it  only  so  far  as  it  gives 
her  the  means  to  benefit  her  fellow-men.  From  every  penny 
appropriated  to  another  purpose  she  parts  grudgingly.  She 
studies  economy  for  the  sake  of  the  suffering ;  and,  not  con 
tent  with  economizing  herself,  she  endeavors  to  compel  those 
with  whom  she  has  dealings  to  do  so  also.  Aunt  Alice  will 
bandy  words  a  half  hour  with  a  tradesman  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  shillings ;  and,  turning  round,  she  will  double  those  shil 
lings  in  charity.  It  is  not  that  she  prefers  generosity  to  jus 
tice,  but  her  view  of  things  is  contracted.  Her  errors  are  of 
judgment,  not  feeling. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  people  call  Aunt  Alice  a  hypocrite ^^ 
but  I  do  wish  that  they  could  look  into  the  bosom  where  rests 
the  meek  and  quiet  spirit  which  they  falsify.  Oh !  Aunt 
Alice  has  a  true  and  generous  heart  —  a  heart  panting  to  be 
like  His  who  loved  the  sinner,  while  hating  all  sin.  A  gen 
erous  heart  has  she  !  Pity  that  it  should  be  curbed,  half  its 
fervor  checked,  and  many  of  its  best  pulsations  hushed,  by  the 
narrow  mind  which  is  its  guide  and  governor ! 


136 


MY  FIKST  GRIEF. 

AN    EXTRACT. 

I  LAUGHED  and  crowed  above  this  water,  when  I  was  a 
baby,  and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  I  played  beside  it,  when  the 
days  were  years  of  summer-time,  and  the  summers  were 
young  eternities  of  brightness,  and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  It 
was  the  scene  of  my  first  grief,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you? 
There  is  not  much  to  tell,  but  I  have  a  notion  that  there  are 
people  above  us,  up  in  the  air,  and  behind  the  clouds,  that 
consider  little  girls'  doings  about  as  important  as  those  of 
men  and  women.  The  birds  and  the  angels  are  great  level 
lers. 

It  was  a  dry  season ;  the  brook  was  low,  and  a  gay  trout 
in  a  coat  of  golden  brown,  dotted  over  with  crimson,  and  a 
silver  pinafore,  lay,  weather-bound,  on  the  half-dry  stones,  all 
heated  and  panting,  with  about  a  tea-spoonful  of  lukewarm 
water,  turning  lazily  from  its  head,  and  creeping  down  its 
back  at  too  slow  a  pace  to  afford  the  sufferer  hope  of  emanci 
pation.  My  sympathies — little  girls,  you  must  know,  are 
made  up  of  love  and  sympathy,  and  such  like  follies,  which 
afterwards  contract  into — n'importe!  I  was  saying,  my 
sympathies  were  aroused;  and,  quite  forgetting  that  water 
would  take  the  gloss  from  my  new  red  morocco  shoes,  I 
picked  my  way  along,  and  laying  hold  of  my  fine  gentleman 
in  limbo,  succeeded  in  burying  him,  wet  face  and  all,  in  the 
folds  of  my  white  apron !  But  such  an  uneasy  prisoner ! 
More  than  one  frightened  toss  did  he  get  into  the  grass,  and 
then  I  had  an  infinite  deal  of  trouble  to  secure  him  again. 
His  gratitude  was  very  like  that  of  human's,  when  you  do 
them  unasked  service 


MY    FIRST    GRIEF.  137 

When  I  had  reached  a  cool,  shaded,  deep  spot,  far  adown, 
where  the  spotted  alders  lean,  like  so  many  self-enamored 
narcissuses,  over  the  ripple-faced  mirror,  I  dropped  my  apron, 
and  let  go  my  prize.  Ah !  he  was  grateful  then !  He  must 
have  been !  How  he  dived,  and  sprang  to  the  surface,  and 
spread  out  his  little  wings  of  dark-ribbed  gossamer,  and 
frisked  about,  keeping  all  the  time  a  cool,  thin  sheet  of  sil 
ver  between  his  back  and  the  sun-sick  air!  I  loved  that 
pretty  fish,  for  I  had  been  kind  to  it ;  and  I  thought  it  would 
love  me,  too,  and  stay  there,  and  be  a  play-fellow  for  me;  so 
I  went  every  day  and  watched  for  it,  and  watched  until  my 
little  eyes  ached ;  but  I  never  saw  it  again.  That  was  my 
first  grief;  what  is  there  in  years  to  make  a  heart  ache 
heavier  ?  That  first  will  be  longer  remembered  than  the  last, 
I  dare  say. 

VOL.  II.  12* 


138 


THE  MIGNIONETTE. 

A   FABLE. 

I  KNOW  there  is  an  angel  in  some  bosoms  —  an  angel 
which  the  Redeemer  leaves  to  guard  his  own  peculiar  jewels 
• — which  will  touch  most  delicately  the  keys  of  love  and 
truthfulness,  whatever  nets  the  world  without  may  be  weav 
ing  to  cripple  its  pure  wings.  But,  in  general,  we  are  imita 
tive  creatures,  and  we  copy  from  our  surroundings.  We 
catch  the  tricks  of  the  leaves,  and  the  breezes,  and  the  flower- 
buds,  when  we  make  our  homes  among  them ;  and,  when 
we  congregate  on  hot  pavements,  the  air  we  breathe  is  sear 
ing  to  the  spirit,  however  you  may  tell  us  it  affects  the  spirit's 
casket.  It  is  better  to  be  a  "  God-make"  than  a  "  man-make," 
as  the  little  deaf  mute,  Jack,  would  say ;  and  men  will  re 
fashion  God's  doings,  even  in  our  own  natures,  if  we  do  not 
prevent  them.  For  this  reason,  it  seems  to  me  not  only 
peculiarly  silly,  but  wicked,  to  transplant  the  early  spring 
violet  from  the  brook-side  to  your  conservatory.  A  gay, 
fashionable  man,  with  a  touch  of  poetry,  and  more  of  worldli- 
ness  about  him,  attempted  it  a  few  years  ago ;  but  he  spoiled 
his  flower.  Poor  Minna  Gray !  She  was  a  pure,  gentle 
creature ;  but  when  she  was  removed  from  the  influences  of 
home,  with  so  much  to  attract,  so  much  to  wonder  at  and 
bewilder,  was  it  strange  that  her  young  heart  should  grow 
stagnant  to  any  but  the  thrilling  touch  of  the  magic  world 
that  accorded  so  well  with  her  dreams  of  fairy-land  ?  No  ; 
if  the  world-weary  man  would  have  the  wild  violet  in  its  fra 
grance,  and  freshness,  and  purity,  he  must  go  and  live  beside 
it ;  it  is  well  worth  the  sacrifice,  and  will  droop  in  any  other 
soil.  We  have  a  strange  notion  in  this  strange  world,  of 
fashioning  pure  things  to  our  own  hands,  instead  of  fashion 
ing  ourselves  to  them. 


THE    MIGNIONETTE.  139 

In  the  days  when  all  the  moveless  dumb  things  on  the 
earth  talked  and  walked  about,  a  Thistle  grew  down  in  the 
corner  of  a  neglected  garden,  in  the  midst  of  other  Thistles,  all 
proud  of  their  purple  blossoms  and  brave  defences.  But 
there  was  one  thing  about  the  porcupine-like  armor  of  the 
Thistle  family,  which  did  not  quite  please  this  gallant 
knight.  They  were  all  bristling  with  prickles;  and  they 
could  not  draw  near  each  other  with  the  loving  confidence 
displayed  by  the  little  bed  of  Mignionette  close  by ;  so,  in 
the  midst  of  kindred  and  friends,  the  Thistle  felt  alone.  Per 
haps,  if  he  had  cast  off  his  own  armor,  and  wheedled  from  the 
air  some  of  the  sweetness  it  had  rifled  from  his  fragrant  neigh 
bors,  the  others  might  have  imitated  him ;  but,  instead  of 
that,  like  many  a  poet  of  the  present  day,  he  stood  up  in  all 
his  exclusiveness ;  and,  from  dawn  to  dew-fall,  sighed  for 
companionship.  At  last  he  began  to  throw  loving  glances 
towards  the  Mignionette ;  and  one  little,  fragrant,  dewy  blos 
som  saw  him,  and  blushed,  hiding  her  meek  head  behind  her 
companions.  From  that  day  the  knight  resolved  to  woo  the 
little  trembler,  and  fashion  her  beautiful  spirit  for  his  own 
happiness.  "  She  shall  grow  close  beside  me,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "  her  roots  shall  twine  with  mine  down  in  the  dark 
earth,  and  her  slender,  delicate  stem  I  will  support  and  train 
upwards,  and  she  will  cling  lovingly  to  me  forever."  So  he 
expended  a  few  more  tender  glances,  and  sent  some  gallant 
speeches  by  the  little  wind-messengers;  and  at  last  pretty 
Mignon  stept  from  the  midst  of  her  sisters,  and  laid  her  fra 
grant  head  on  the  bosom  of  her  mettlesome  wooer.  For  a 
little  time,  whose  life  so  bright  as  that  of  Knight  Thistle  ? 
But  sometimes  the  sharp  thorns  in  his  armor  wounded  his 
gentle  bride,  and  then  came  tears  and  chidings ;  sometimes, 
when  he  bent  his  head  to  touch  her  bright  lip,  there  seemed 
a  strong  scent  of  the  Thistle  in  her  breath,  instead  of  the  fra 
grance  which  had  made  the  whole  garden  rich ;  and  some 
times,  at  midnight,  when  the  wind  was  a  little  noisier  than 
usual,  and  the  tall  Thistle-heads  hissed  a  response,  he  fan 
cied  that  another  hiss  arose  close  beside  him,  and  he  did  not 


140  THE    MIGNIONETTE. 

love  his  Mignon  more  for  growing  so  like  himself.  Finally, 
after  a  year  or  two  had  passed,  the  Thistle  found,  to  his  dis 
may,  that  the  roots  of  the  Mignionette  were  so  interwoven 
with  those  of  her  stout  neighbors,  that  they  were  in  no  wise 
distinguishable  ;  then  thorns  grew  from  her  sides,  and  wounded 
as  his  had  done ;  she  put  a  purple  crown  upon  her  head,  and 
became  a  Thistle.  It  was  not  very  strange,  for  she  had  lain 
upon  his  heart,  and  its  throbbings  were  not  good  for  her ;  she 
had  listened  to  his  whispers,  and  in  them  had  forgotten  the 
pure,  sweet  converse  of  her  sisters,  though  her  fainting 
spirit  longed  for  it ;  and  she  had  breathed  the  air  that  the 
Thistles  breathed,  until  her  whole  nature  was  contaminated. 

But  from  that  day  to  this,  the  whole  family  of  Thistles 
(which  has  since  become  very  numerous,  and  does  not 
always  wear  the  purple)  declare  the  modest  little  Mignionette 
to  be  no  purer,  no  gentler,  no  sweeter  or  more  loving  than 
themselves  ;  and  they  firmly  believe  that  there  are  no  such 
virtues  as  these  in  the  wide  world,  and  those  who  seem  most 
to  practise  them,  are  only  the  most  adroit  deceivers. 

Ah !  pretty  Mignionettes,  sweet  Violets,  bright  Minna 
Grays;  beware  of  the  world — nestle  in  your  seclusion — 
guard  well  your  simple,  trustful  hearts ;  your  innocence  is  no 
match  for  the  strong  continual  influence  which  always  enters 
by  the  purest  door  of  your  natures  to  desecrate  your  trea 
sures. 


141 


MINISTEEING  ANGELS. 


MOTHER,  has  the  dove  that  nestled 

Lovingly  upon  thy  breast, 
Folded  up  its  little  pinion, 

And  in  darkness  gone  to  rest  ? 
Nay ;  the  grave  is  dark  and  dreary, 

But  the  lost  one  is  not  there ; 
Hear'st  thou  not  its  gentle  whisper, 

Floating  on  the  ambient  air  ? 
It  is  near  thee,  gentle  mother, 

Near  thee  at  the  evening  hour ; 
Its  soft  kiss  is  in  the  zephyr, 

It  looks  up  from  every  flower. 
And  when,  Night's  dark  shadows  fleeing, 

Low  thou  bendest  thee  in  prayer, 
And  thy  heart  feels  nearest  heaven, 

Then  thy  angel  babe  is  there. 

Maiden,  has  thy  noble  brother, 

On  whose  manly  form  thine  eye 
Loved  full  oft  in  pride  to  linger, 

On  whose  heart  thou  couldst  rely, 
Though  all  other  hearts  deceived  thee, 

All  proved  hollow,  earth  grew  drear, 
Whose  protection,  ever  o'er  thee, 

Hid  thee  from  the  cold  world's  sneer, — 
Has  he  left  thee  here  to  struggle, 

All  unaided  on  thy  way  ? 
Nay ;  he  still  can  guide  and  guard  thee, 

Still  thy  faltering  steps  can  stay : 
Still,  when  danger  hovers  o'er  thee, 

He  than  danger  is  more  near ; 


142  MINISTERING   ANGELS. 

When  in  grief  thou  'st  none  to  pity, 
He,  the  sainted,  marks  each  tear. 

Lover,  is  the  light  extinguished, 

Of  the  gem  that,  in  thy  heart 
Hidden  deeply,  to  thy  being 

All  its  sunshine  could  impart  ? 
Look  above  !  't  is  burning  brighter 

Than  the  very  stars  in  heaven ; 
And  to  light  thy  dangerous  pathway, 

All  its  new-found  glory  's  given. 
With  the  sons  of  earth  commingling, 

Thou  the  loved  one  mayst  forget ; 
Bright  eyes  flashing,  tresses  waving, 

May  have  power  to  win  thee  yet ; 
But  e'en  then  that  guardian  spirit 

Oft  will  whisper  in  thine  ear, 
And  in  silence,  and  at  midnight, 

Thou  wilt  know  she  hovers  near. 

Orphan,  thou  most  sorely  stricken 

Of  the  mourners  thronging  earth, 
Clouds  half  veil  thy  brightest  sunshine, 

Sadness  mingles  with  thy  mirth. 
Yet,  although  that  gentle  bosom, 

Which  has  pillowed  oft  thy  head, 
Now  is  cold,  thy  mother's  spirit 

Cannot  rest  among  the  dead. 
Still  her  watchful  eye  is  o'er  thee 

Through  the  day,  and  still  at  night 
Hers  the  eye  that  guards  thy  slumber, 

Making  thy  young  dreams  so  bright. 
O  !  the  friends,  the  friends  we  Ve  cherished 

How  we  weep  to  see  them  die ! 
All  unthinking  they  're  the  angels 

That  will  guide  us  to  the  sky ! 


143 


THE  RAIN  A  THOUGHT-MAKER. 

WOULD  you  believe  it,  "  Bel"  —  that  there  is  poetry  in  a 
woodpile  —  genuine,  unmitigated  poetry,  dipped  up  from  the 
very  heart  of  Helicon  ?  Would  you  believe  it  ?  Well,  there 
is ;  and,  what  is  better  still,  it  is  not  a  moth  born  of  the  sun 
shine;  but  a  genuine  bird  of  Parnassus,  dashing  rain-diamonds 
from  its  wings,  and  weaving  rainbows,  and  turning  rain-clouds 
into  —  whatever  you  choose  —  the  friar's  cowl  and  gown,  or 
the  ermine  and  velvet  of  St.  James,  as  your  taste  suggests. 
But  it  is  a  Niobe  ;  or  rather  a  Venus  bathing  in  an  upper  sea ; 
for  the  muse  of  the  woodpile,  you  must  know,  is  a  rain-divin 
ity.  To  illustrate.  We  have  had  a  week —  0,  such  a  week  ! 
If  I  possessed  any  mechanical  skill  it  would  have  made  a 
Noah  of  me,  six  days  ago.  Drizzle,  drizzle !  patter,  patter! 
from  darkness  to  darkness ;  for  the  day  is  one  continued  twi 
light,  the  damp  light  coming  in  and  going  out  at  its  usual 
hours,  as  though  it  acted  only  from  a  sense  of  duty  —  sick 
and  dizzy  enough,  meanwhile,  to  prefer  being  alone.  The 
night,  too  —  but  nights  never  hang  heavily  on  my  hands, 
thanks  to  the  little  people  from  Dreamland. 

Did  you  ever  spend  a  rainy  day  in  the  country,  "  Bel  ?" 
You  will  say,  yes ;  for  now  I  have  asked,  I  recollect  one  or 
two  when  you  were  with  us.  But  Walter  was  here  then ; 
so,  of  course,  your  sun  shone.  Once  imagine  those  rainy 
days  without  a  lover,  "  Bella ;"  and  then  think  of  seven  of 
them  all  in  a  row,  so  near  alike  that  you  cannot  distinguish 
one  from  its  twin  ;  and  you  must  keep  an  almanac  in  your 
hand  to  prove  to  yourself  that  yesterday  has  not  come  back 
again  to  cheat  you  into  living  a  stale  day.  By  the  way,  what 
a  fresh  life  we  have  of  it ;  forever  using  new  time,  moments 
just  coined  from  stray  fragments  of  eternity,  soiled  by  nobody's 
breath,  and  thrown  by  as  soon  as  tarnished  or  embalmed  by 


144  THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER. 

ours.  Not  quite  thrown  by,  either.  They  are  following  after 
us,  a  line  of  strange  things  strangely  broidered  over,  to  buoy 
us  heavenward,  like  the  tail  of  a  kite,  or  drag  us  down,  a  chain 
of  lead.  "  Revenons  a  nos  moutonst" 

The  woodpile.  There  it  stands,  with  the  water  drip,  drip 
ping  from  it  —  all  motionless,  and  meek  as  Mooly  "midway 
in  the  marshy  pool;"  (you  admire  musical  sounds,  "Bel;" 
and  there  is  alliteration  for  you,  worthy  of  the  fair  Laura 
Matilda  herself.)  Drip  !  drip  !  there  's  something  chiding  in 
that  woodpile  —  a  dumb  reverence  for  what  is,  which  makes 
me  ashamed  of  wishing  for  the  ninety-ninth  time,  as  I  was  on 
the  point  of  doing,  that  the  rain  '•'•would  be  over  and  gone." 
Resigned  to  the  decrees  of  Providence !  O,  it  is  a  hard  thing, 
"  Bel."  Think  of  our  hopes,  as  they  are  first  formed,  with  a 
heart-throb  in  every  tiny  bud ;  then  think  of  them  as  they 
begin  to  expand,  blushing,  brightening,  bursting  out  from  the 
envious  green,  fresh  and  glorious  —  our  gay,  gorgeous  hopes; 
think  of  them  in  their  glad  beauty,  and  watch  the  coming 
of  the  rain-storm.  How  they  strive  to  stand,  poor  perishable 
things  !  How  they  wave,  and  quiver,  and  wrestle  !  and  then 
see  their  bright  petals  swept  downward  and  scattered,  gem 
ming  the  wet  ground,  before  one  sun-ray  had  given  them  a 
baptismal  kiss.  Lost  before  named  !  Poor  hopes  !  Pitiable 
hopers ! 

Not  poetry,  did  you  say?  Well,  it  is  philosophy,  then; 
and  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  there  is  the  difference  of  a 
maple  and  an  elm  stick  between  the  two.  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  same  divinity  presides  over  both.  To  be 
sure,  poetry  shows  the  dimpled  foot,  mantled  only  by  the  hem 
of  a  lady's  robe ;  while  philosophy  strides  off  in  buskin  and 
hosen ;  but  you  may  see  them  step  behind  the  scenes  at  any 
moment,  and  exchange  attire. 

I  have  gained  quite  an  affection  for  that  woodpile,  since  I 
have  had  nothing  else  to  look  at ;  and  it  went  to  my  heart 
this  morning  to  have  a  heavy  armful  transferred  to  my  room, 
for  the  purpose  of  correcting  the  dampness  of  the  atmosphere. 
I  felt  as  though  committing  a  kind  of  sacrilege  ;  worse  still, 


THE    RAIN   A   THOUGHT-MAKER.  145 

burning  my  monitor,  because  perhaps  its  teachings  chid  me. 
And  then,  when  the  wild  flames  were  all  raving  around  it, 
how  could  I  help,  "  Bel  ; "  unclasping  a  clasp,  and  looking 
into  the  morrow  of  a  little  trembler,  who  would  fain  cling 
a  life-long  to  the  present  ?  My  life  has  been  one  track  of 
roses ;  I  have  imbibed  their  freshness,  and  drunk  their  per 
fume  ;  my  smiles  have  been  heart-born,  and  every  tear  has 
had  a  rainbow  in  it.  I  have  led  a  happy,  happy  life,  "  Bel" 
—  thank  God !  who  has  granted  every  blessing  to  a  hoping 
mother's  prayers.  But  a  wiser  than  the  hoping  has  said,  "  If 
a  man  live  many  years,  and  rejoice  in  them  all,  yet  let  him 
remember  the  days  of  darkness;  for  they  shall  be  many." 
Not  entire  darkness,  "  Bel ;  "  for  I  know  of  stars  that  will  al 
ways  sparkle,  of  lamps  that  will  always  burn  ;  but  still  there 
are  days  of  trial  awaiting  me  —  perhaps  in  the  distance,  per 
haps  very  near,  even  at  the  door.  I  cannot  die  till  my  lip 
has  pressed  the  bitter.  Heaven  help  me,  then  !  and  not  me 
alone,  but  all  of  us. 

I  wish  you  could  sit  by  me  this  morning,  and  see  my  fire 
burn.  There  is  John  Rogers  himself,  with  his  picket  fence 
of  little  people,  to  keep  him  from  running  away,  just  as  he 
stands  in  the  primer ;  and  there  is  the  veritable  hero,  Jack- 
the-giant-killer,  if  I  am  to  judge  by  the  enormous  club  he 
carries,  three  times  the  size  of  himself;  and  there  —  there,  as 
I  live,  is  your  own  Broadway,  the  genuine  article,  the  shops 
all  tricked  out  in  finery,  and  the  passers-by  in  the  same  way 
bedizened  —  all  walking  show-cases.  And  now  the  fire-scene 
changes,  and  I  look  into  a  magnificent  palace,  —  my  foot  is 
aching  just  to  press  that  gorgeous  carpet,  and — there,  a  stick 
has  rolled  down  upon  it,  and  my  palace  is  in  the  condition  of 
many  another  one  that  I  have  builded.  That  big  stick  of 
maple  seems  to  me  like  a  martyr,  suffering  for  opinion's  sake. 
Certainly  it  is  the  very  stick  that  I  saw  yesterday  turning  its 
bleached  face  heavenward  with  a  submissiveness  which  had 
no  sigh  in  it;  and,  with  its  last  year's  green  for  a  text,  it 
preached  me  a  long  sermon.  It  was  not  a  very  agreeable  one, 
however.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  few  things  it  wrote  on  my  heart  * 

VOL.  IT.  13 


146  THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER. 

I  never  afflicted  myself  much  at  the  decay  of  empires — 
never  gave  half  as  many  tears  to  the  downfall  of  all  the  mighty 
mourning  places  of  the  old  world  combined,  as  I  shed  over  the 
grave  I  dug  in  childhood  for  a  poor  broken- winged  robin  I 
had  striven  to  win  back  to  life.  My  heart  is  not  big  enough 
for  that  kind  of  sympathy ;  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to 
convince  me  that  there  is  a  place  in  the  world  of  quite  as 
much  consequence  as  Alderbrook.  If  I  should  wake  some  of 
these  mornings,  and  find  the  houses  all  turned  into  stacks  of 
chimneys,  (we  have  few  Grecian  pillars,  and  such  like  un- 
necessaries,  so  our  ruins  would  not  be  very  romantic,)  and  the 
direction  of  the  only  nice  street  we  have,  such  a  disputable 
thing  that  the  antiquarians  of  Crow-hill  would  wrangle  about 
it  forever  after  ;  I  say,  if  I  should  awake  and  find  changes 
like  these,  I  should  probably  weep  a  few  such  tears  as  have, 
during  the  lapse  of  centuries,  bathed  the  ruins  that  claim  the 
world  for  mourners.  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  nothing  in 
comparison  with  seeing  a  new  grave  dug  over  the  white  stile< 
yonder,  among  the  cypresses.  The  decay  of  life,  the  extin 
guishing  of  the  lamp  lighted  by  the  hand  of  God,  —  0,  there 
is  something  in  that  which  I  can  feel !  I  do  not  know  what 
kind  of  life  there  was  in  that  maple-tree  last  summer — how 
high,  how  glorious,  how  much  like  this  which  is  now  swel 
ling  in  my  veins  and  bubbling  at  my  heart — but  I  do 
know  that  there  was  life  in  it.  And  life,  of  whatever  kind,  is 
a  mysterious,  a  fearfully  mysterious  thing1.  But  it  is  gone 
now ;  and  the  living  tree,  which  gloried  in  the  sunlight,  and 
wrestled  with  the  winds  of  heaven — that  had  veins  and  arte 
ries,  through  which  the  life-current  wandered  as  through  mine, 
is  degraded  to  the  impassiveness  of  the  stone  —  below  the  stone 
in  its  early  perishableness,  as  the  human  frame  is  below  that 
in  a  more  revolting  dissolution.  Sometimes  I  fancy,  as  the 
stick  lies  smouldering  in  that  crust  of  gray  ashes,  that  the 
principle  of  life  has  not  yet  departed  from  it ;  for,  the  unwil 
ling  yielding  to  the  flame,  the  occasional  brightening  up,  as 
though  a  hoping  soul  looked  through  it,  the  half-mirthful 
crackle,  and  the  low,  mournful  song,  like  its  own  requiem,  all 


THE    RAIN   A   THOUGHT-MAKER.  147 

seem  to  speak  of  an  inner  life,  which  the  axe  of  the  woodman 
failed  to  reach.  I  observe,  too,  as  I  watch  it,  fragments 
crumbling  back  into  ashes ;  while,  above,  floats  oft'  a  blue 
wreath,  waving  and  curling — winging  its  way  heavenward 
with  all  the  gladness  of  an  emancipated  spirit.  Will  you  be 
lieve  with  me,  "  Bella,"  that  this  is  the  same  spirit  which  ani 
mated  the  living  leaves  of  the  maple  tree,  when  they  coquet 
ted  with  the  summer  sun-light,  and  folded  the  wind  genii  in 
their  green  arms,  and  whispered,  with  their  fresh  lips,  of 
things,  which,  I  suppose,  the  birds  know  more  about  than  we. 
Why  should  it  not  be  ?  I  have  no  objection  to  the  Indian's  plan 
of  taking  dogs,  and  horses,  and  other  lovable  things,  to  hea 
ven  ;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  like  to  see  him  chase 
the  "  spotted  Fomen,"  or  put  a  veto  on  the  flourish  of  bright 
wings  ;  but  I  think  all  these  will  be  a  study  for  us  there.  Our 
natures  have  become  contracted  in  this  cramped-up  breathing- 
place,  where  we  are  hustled  about,  and  jostled  against  each 
other,  till  self-protection — self,  seZ/^-everything — is  the  one 
chord  vibrating  to  our  every  breath.  We  have  arranged  a 
book  of  nature,  and  put  ourselves  in  as  a  frontispiece ;  (the 
picture  —  other  living  things,  only  the  border;)  but  the  whole 
may  be  reversed  in  heaven. 

" Just  as  short  of  reason  he  may  fall, 

Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  as  one  for  all." 

And  what  egotism  to  believe  our  own  the  only  deathless 
spirits  to  pass  from  this  bright  earth  to  a  brighter  Paradise .' 
Ourselves  alone  gifted  with  the  true  life  —  all  things  else 
cursed  with  a  mockery,  a  semblance,  like  the  iris-hued  bubble 
to  the  sun. 

But,  "Bell,"  I  do  hope  this  maple  stick  is  as  insensible  as  it 
seemed  on  the  wood-pile  yesterday ;  for  I  have  no  great  fancy 
for  playing  the  executioner,  though  it  did  teach  me  an  ugly 
lesson.  What  that  lesson  was,  I  have  only  hinted  at  yet ;  it 
is  scarce  a  thing  to  repeat  to  one  so  bright  and  joyous  as  you 
are.  Perhaps  you  never  think  of  the  dark  phantoms  that 
trouble  the  existence  of  other  mortals — but  0,  "  Bell,"  death 
is  a  thing  to  dread  !  And  then  it  is  such  an  ever-present  thing  ; 


14S  THE    RAIN    A   THOUGHT-MAKER. 

we  are  so  reminded  of  it  every  moment  of  our  lives  !  There 
is  no  hour  so  sacred,  no  place  so  secure,  but  we  cast  a  look 
over  the  shoulder  at  the  fearful  shape  following  us.  At  dawn 
and  at  dew-fall,  at  noon-tide  blaze,  and  in  the  star  broidered 
midnight,  it  is  all  the  same. 

When  day  is  dying  in  the  Avest, 

Each  flickering  ray  of  crimson  light, 
The  sky,  in  gold  and  purple  dressed, 

The  cloud,  with  glory  all  bedight, 

And  every  shade  that  ushers  night, 
And  each  cool  breeze  that  comes  to  weave 
Its  dampness  with  my  curls  —  all  leave 
A  lesson  sad. 

Last  night  I  plucked  a  half-shut  flower, 
Which  blushed  and  nodded  on  its  stem  ; 

A  thing  to  grace  a  Peri's  bower ; 

It  seemed  to  me  some  priceless  gem, 
Dropped  from  an  angel's  diadem  ; 

But  soon  the  blossom  drooping  lay, 

And,  as  it  withered,  seemed  to  say, 

We  're  passing  all ! 

I  loved  a  fair-haired,  gentle  boy, 

(A  bud  of  brightness  —  ah,  too  rare !) 
I  loved  him,  and  I  saw  with  joy 

Heaven's  purity  all  centred  there  ; 

But  he  went  up,  that  heaven  to  share ; 
And,  as  his  spirit  from  him  stole, 
His  last  look  graved  upon  my  soul, 

Learn  thus  to  die  ! 

I  've  seen  the  star  that  glowed  in  heaven, 
When  other  stars  seemed  half  asleep, 

As  though  from  its  proud  station  driven, 
Go  rushing  down  the  azure  steep, 
Through  space  unmeasured,  dark,  and  deep  ; 

And,  as  it  vanished  far  in  night, 

I  read  by  its  departing  light, 

Thus  perish  all ! 

I  *ve,  in  its  dotage,  seen  the  year, 

Worn  out  and  weary,  struggling  on, 
Till  falling  prostrate  on  its  bier, 

Time  marked  another  cycle  gone  ; 

And  as  I  heard  the  dying  moan, 


THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER.  149 

Upon  my  trembling  heart,  there  fell 
The  awful  words,  as  by  a  spell, 

Death  —  death  to  all ! 

They  come  on  every  breath  of  air, 

Which  sighs  its  feeble  life  away  ; 
They  're  vhispered  by  each  blossom  fair, 

Which  folds  a  lid  at  close  of  day  ; 

There  's  nought  of  earth,  or  sad  or  gay, 
There  's  nought  below  the  star-lit  skies, 
But  leaves  one  lesson  as  it  flies  — 

Thou  too  must  die  ! 

And  numberless  those  silvery  chords, 

Dissevered  by  the  spoiler's  hand, 
But  each  in  breaking  still  affords 

A  tone  to  say  we  all  are  banned  ; 

And  on  each  brow  by  death-damps  spanned, 
The  pall,  the  slowly  moving  hearse, 
Is  traced  the  burden  of  my  verse,  — 

Death  —  death  to  man ! 

Ah !  the  strong,  the  mighty  may  well  turn  pale,  and  quake, 
and  shrivel,  and  mewl,  even  as  an  infant  in  its  swaddlings, 
with  that  skeleton  finger  stealthily  winding  itself  among  the 
warm,  bloodful  veins,  turning  them  to  ice  as  it  goes.  With 
that  dark  sovereign  of  a  darksome  hour  looking  into  his  eyes 
and  counting  through  these  faithful  mirrors  the  pulsations  of 
the  heart  below ;  scattering,  one  by  one,  the  sands  from  his 
glass,  and  stealing,  drop  by  drop,  the  life  from  its  fountain,  the 
brave,  strong-souled  man  may  measure  courage  with  the  timid 
maiden,  and  never  blush  to  find  an  equal  in  heroism.  To 
have  those  who  have  loved,  caressed,  and  watched  over  us 
with  sleepless  attention,  turn  loathingly  from  us  and  hustle  us 
into  the  earth,  among  the  stones  and  festering  germs  of  poi 
sonous  weeds,  with  the  frozen  clods  upon  our  bosoms,  to 
moulder  in  darkness  and  gloom,  to  be  trod  upon  and  forgotten  ; 
while  beautiful  beings  that  we  could  love,  O,  so  dearly !  are 
flitting  above  us;  and  the  light  is  glancing ;  and  birds,  drunk 
with  joyousness,  wheeling  and  careering  in  the  sunbeam  ;  and 
all  the  world  going  on  merrily,  as  when  our  hearts  went  with 
it  —  Oh  !  what  has  man's  courage,  man's  strength,  man's  stern 
self-control,  to  offer  against  such  an  overwhelming  certainty  ! 

VOL.  TT  ]:]* 


150  THE    RAIN    A   THOUGHT-MAKER. 

There  is  so  much  in  this  dear,  beautiful  world,  too,  for  the 
heart  to  cling  to !  "What  is  there  in  the  sad  catalogue  of 
human  suffering  like  wrenching  away 

— That  holy  link  which  first 
Within  the  soul's  rich  mine  was  moulded  ; 
When  life  awoke,  and  love's  pure  wing 
Another  nestling  close  enfolded  ? 

We  turn  to  the  hearth-stone  in  the  hour  of  pain,  and  nestle 
back  upon  a  mother's  bosom  ;  and  we  say,  we  cannot  leave  it 
—  we  cannot  die !  A  father's  proud  eye  is  on  us  —  ambition 
blossoms  in  our  hearts  beneath  it ;  and  then,  how  stiflingly 
steal  over  us  thoughts  of  the  coffin  and  the  grave  !  How  can 
we  die  in  the  dew  of  our  morning,  with  all  those  glowing  vis 
ions  unrealized !  How  can  we  pass  in  age,  when  the  thousand 
chains  which  we  have  been  our  life-long  forging,  are  all 
linked  to  the  bright,  beautiful  things  here,  wrhich  we  can  but 
love !  Father  in  heaven,  teach  me  trust  in  Thee !  As 
these  chords,  which  Thou  hast  strung,  lose  tone,  and  canker 
against  thy  cunning  workmanship,  gather  them  into  thine  own 
hand,  and  attune  them  anew  to  accord  with  the  harps  of 
angels.  Teach  me  trust  in  Thee ;  that  when  the  coffin-lid 
shuts  out  the  sunshine,  and  the  green-bladed  grass  springs 
between  my  breast  and  the  feet  of  the  living,  I  may  still  be  in 
the  midst  of  light,  and  joy,  and  love  —  love  measureless  as 
eternity. 

I  had  quite  forgotten  that  I  was  writing  a  letter,  "  Bel,"  and 
have  jotted  down  the  thoughts  as  they  came  tumbling  to  the 
point  of  my  pen,  with  a  merciless  lack  of  consideration  for 
you,  who  are  probably  basking  in  the  mirth-giving  brightness 
of  a  sunny  morning.  But  by  this  you  will  discover  that  a 
rainy  day  in  the  country  is  not  without  its  uses.  It  gives  us 
thinking- time,  and  that  lengthens  our  lives;  —  none  live  so 
fast  and  have  so  few  way-marks  as  the  butterflies.  Besides, 
thought  is  the  father  of  action  —  so,  to  that  great  sheet  of  mist, 
and  the  dripping  rain,  and  the  beaded  grass,  and  the  streets, 
many  a  good  deed  may  owe  its  parentage.  But  now  my  stick 
of  maple  is  nearly  charred,  and  my  eyes  are  trying  to  hide 


THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER.  J51 

themselves  behind  pairs  of  fringes  which  are  nearing  each 
other  for  an  embrace.  I  will  to  sleep,  "  Bel,"  with  a  looking- 
glass  in  the  window,  to  give  me  intelligence  of  the  first  strip 
of  blue  that  disengages  itself  from  the  prisoning  clouds. 
Adieu,  my  bright  cousin  !  All  good  attend  you,  and  no  more 
rain  visit  New  York  than  may  be  needed  as  a  thought-maker. 


152 


GENIUS. 

THERE  is  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  turning  over  the  records 
of  genius,  and  familiarizing  ourselves  with  the  secret  workings 
of  those  minds  that  have,  from  time  to  time,  made  memorable 
the  ages  in  which  they  lived,  and  ennobled  the  several  na 
tions  which  gave  them  birth.  But  it  is  not  the  indulgence  of 
this  feeling  which  makes  such  a  study  peculiarly  profitable  to 
us  :  from  these  records  we  may  learn  much  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  human  mind  in  its  most  luxurious  developments. 
Genius  seems  to  be  confined  to  no  soil,  no  government,  no 
age  or  nation,  and  no  rank  in  society.  When  men  lived  in 
wandering  tribes,  and  could  boast  no  literature,  the  bright 
flame  burned  among  them,  although  wild  and  often  deadly  its 
ray ;  and  the  foot  of  oppression,  which  crushes  all  else,  has 
failed  to  extinguish  it.  Hence  it  has  rashly  been  inferred 
that  this  peculiar  gift,  possessed  by  the  favored  few,  may  be 
perfected  without  any  exertion  on  their  part,  and  is  subject  to 
none  of  the  rules  which  in  all  other  cases  govern  intellect ; 
but  that,  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable,  it  must  burst  forth 
when  and  where  it  will,  and  be  burned  up  in  the  blaze  of  its 
own  glory,  leaving  but  the  halo  of  its  former  brightness 
upon  the  historic  page.  This  inference,  however,  is  alike 
erroneous  and  dangerous.  Though  genius  be  an  unsought 
gift,  a  peculiar  emanation  from  the  Divine  Mind,  it  was  not 
originally  intended  as  a  glorious  curse,  to  crush  the  spirit 
which  it  elevates.  Perchance  the  pent-up  stream  within  the 
soul  must  find  an  avenue ;  but  he  who  bears  the  gift  may 
choose  that  avenue,  —  may  direct,  control  and  divert;  he  may 
scatter  the  living  waters  on  a  thousand  objects,  or  pour  their 
whole  force  upon  one  ;  he  may  calm  and  purify  them,  by  this 
means  rendering  them  none  the  less  deep,  or  he  may  allow 


GENIUS.  153 

them  to  dash  and  foam  until,  however  they  sparkle,  "the  dark 
sediments  of  vice  and  misery  thus  made  to  mingle,  may  be 
found  in  every  gem. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  oft-quoted  names  of  Byron  and  Burns 
— names  that  can  scarcely  be  mentioned  by  the  admirers  of 
genius  without  a  thrill  of  pain.  To  the  poor  ploughman  on 
the  banks  of  the  Doon  was  sent  the  glorious  talisman,  and 
with  it  he  unlocked  the  portals  of  nature,  and  read  truths  even 
in  the  flower  overturned  by  his  ploughshare,  unseen  by  com 
mon  eyes.  But  mark  his  veering  course  ;  think  of  his  (com 
paratively)  wasted  energies.  He  could  love  the  wild  flowers 
in  the  braes  and  the  sunlight  on  the  banks  of  his  "  bonny 
Doon;"  he  could,  at  least  at  one  time,  smile  at  his  lowly  lot; 
and  he  ever  contended  against  fortune  with  a  strong  and 
fearless  hand.  But  while  the  polished  society  of  Edinburgh 
owned  his  power,  and  he  swayed  the  hearts  of  lads  and  lass 
es  of  his  own  degree  at  will,  he  could  not  control  himself; 
and  many  of  those  light  songs,  which  are  now  on  gladsome 
lips,  might,  could  we  enter  into  the  secrets  of  the  poor  bard, 
be  but  the  sad  way-marks  of  the  aching  heart,  as  it  grew  each 
day  heavier  till  it  sank  into  the  grave.  Burns,  the  light- 
hearted  lover  of  his  "  Highland  Mary,"  and  Burns,  the  care 
worn  exciseman,  were  very  different  persons;  but  neither 
outward  circumstances  nor  the  genius  that  characterized  both 
alike,  was  the  cause.  The  world  has  been  blamed  in  his  case ; 
but  the  world,  after  it  first  noticed,  could  have  done  nothing 
to  save.  The  poet,  had  he  known  his  moral  strength  and 
cared  to  exert  it,  could  have  saved  himself,  as  his  superiority 
to  many  of  the  foibles  and  prejudices  of  human  nature  and 
his  manly  independence  on  many  occasions  evinced. 

Byron,  like  his  own  archangel  ruined  guiding  a  fallen  son 
of  clay  in  his  search  after  mysteries,  has  delved  among  hidden 
treasures  and  spread  before  us  the  richest  gems  of  Helicon ; 
but  scarce  one  of  these  but  is  dark  in  its  glory,  and,  although 
burning  with  all  the  fire  of  heaven-born  poesy,  sends  forth  a 
mingled  and  dangerous  ray.  But  had  a  mother  whispered 
her  pious  counsels  in  his  ear  in  boyhood  ;  had  a  friendly  finger 


154  GENIUS. 

pointed  out  a  nobler  revenge  when  that  first  cutting  satire  was 
penned  •  and  had  a  better,  a  holier  sentiment  than  the  mean 
passion  of  revenge  urged  him  on  to  action  and  governed  his 
after  aspirations,  think  you  that  the  archangel  of  earth  would 
have  stood  less  glorious?  No.  Byron's  spirit  had  a  self- 
rectifying  power,  and  he  could  have  used  it,  but  he  did  not ; 
and,  although  he  has  well  won  the  laurel,  a  poison  more  bit 
ter  than  death  is  dropping  from  every  leaf. 

It  was  not  an  ungrateful  public  that  spread  the  death-couch 
of  Savage  in  a  debtor's  prison,  or  dug  the  suicidal  grave  of 
"  Bristol's  wondrous  boy."  They  were  themselves  ungrate 
ful  ;  they  guarded  not  well  the  gift  they  bore,  and  fell  victims 
to  their  own  misdirected  powers. 

The  common  mind,  never  tempted,  may  wonder  at  the  way 
wardness  of  genius  and  despise  the  weakness  of  its  possessor ; 
and  the  generous  one  that  sees  the  struggle  and  mourns  the 
wreck,  may  pity  and  apologize ;  and  both  are  in  some  degree 
right.  While  we  admire  and  pity,  we  must  wonder  at  the 
weakness  of  the  strength  that,  subduing  all  else,  failed  beneath 
its  own  weight.  We  know  that  the  gifted  ones  of  earth  often 
have  stronger  passions,  more  irresistible  wills,  and  quicker 
and  more  dangerous  impulses  than  other  men ;  and  for  this 
very  reason  should  they  cultivate  more  assiduously  the  noble 
powers  by  which  these  passions  and  impulses  are  governed. 
Each  individual  possesses  them ;  but  they  must  be  cultivated. 

It  is  our  conception  of  the  mysteries  of  this  gift  which  leads 
us  to  look  back  with  such  peculiar  interest  upon  the  infancy 
of  a  man  of  genius,  expecting  there  to  discover  at  least  some 
flashes  of  the  divine  ray  which  lighted  up  his  after  life.  The 
dusty  memories  of  nurses  and  village  oracles  are  ransacked 
for  anecdotes,  which  oftentimes  neither  the  additions  sug 
gested  by  pride  and  partial  affection,  nor  the  transforming 
medium  of  the  past,  through  which  they  are  viewed,  can  swell 
into  anything  like  superiority  to  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
other  children.  He  who  will  watch  an  intelligent  child 
through  one  day,  will  be  astonished  at  the  bright  flashes  of 
untaught  intellect  which,  could  they  be  abstracted  from  the 


GENIUS.  155 

childish  notions  in  which  they  are  almost  entirely  buried, 
would  be  thought,  by  any  but  him  who  found  them  in  such 
amusing  vicinity,  the  sure  precursors  of  greatness. 

True,  real  genius  often  shows  itself  in  childhood ;  but  that 
it  always  does,  or  that  such  a  development  is  desirable,  may  be 
seriously  questioned.  The  child  who  writes  verses  at  six,  or 
gives  other  indications  of  a  genius  surpassing  his  years,  may 
be  wondered  at  and  admired  as  a  prodigy ;  but  the  parent 
ought  to  tremble  to  observe  the  premature  fruit  bursting 
through  the  petals  of  the  not  yet  unfolded  bud.  There  is  an 
evidence  of  disease  in  this,  which,  in  one  way  or  another, 
almost  always  proves  fatal.  This  unnatural  power  wears  out 
itself  or  the  frame  of  its  possessor ;  either  the  mind  or  the 
body  must  fail  under  such  a  rapid  development. 

The  village  pedagogue  in  his  old  age  may  look  about  him 
wonderingly ;  for  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  least  promising  of 
all  his  flock  takes  the  highest  stand,  while  his  bright,  ever- 
ready  favorite,  that  he  was  sure  would*  become  a  great  man, 
does  not  rise  above  mediocrity.  There  is  nothing  strange  or 
capricious  in  this.  It  is  the  sure  result  of  natural  causes,  and 
has  its  counterpart  in  all  the  works  of  nature  —  even  in  the 
human  frame.  Rapid  growth  produces  weakness  in  the  bones 
and  sinews  ;  and,  in  some  cases,  this  growth  has  been  so  rapid 
as  to  become  an  actual  disease,  and  carry  its  victim  to  the 
grave.  Many  are  the  instances  of  intellectual  growth  so 
rapid  as  to  weaken  the  mind  and  sink  it  even  below  medioc 
rity,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  produce  premature  death.  For 
examples  of  this  last  result  we  need  not  go  to  the  tombs  of 
the  early  dead  in  the  old  world,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  visit 
the  banks  of  Saranac,  where  drooped  the  fairest  buds  that 
ever  shed  the  fragrance  of  heaven  upon  earth.  We  can  find 
them  in  our  own  midst.  Many  are  the  gifted  little  beings, 
who,  after  basking  in  the  sunshine  and  rejoicing  among  the 
flowers  for  a  few  short  summers,  pass  away  all  unknown  to 
the  world — leaving  only  the  frail  memorials  of  their  early 
genius  to  soothe,  yet  sadden  even  in  the  moment  of  soothing, 
the  hearts  that  cherished  them 


156  GENIUS. 

It  would  be  going  too  far  to  censure  those  who  have  the 
guidance  of  such  minds ;  but  it  would  save  worlds  of  disap 
pointment,  did  they  know  that  such  promises  are  deceitful 
and  deserving  of  but  little  confidence.  And  sometimes, 
doubtless,  the  poor  victim  might  be  saved  years  of  pain  and 
disease,  and,  perchance,  be  spared  to  the  world  through  a 
long  life,  were  not  the  powers  of  the  mind  forced  by  unnatural 
means  to  expand  too  soon — before  either  the  mind  or  body 
had  acquired  the  strength  and  hardiness  necessary  to  its  own 
healthy  existence.  Many  have  seen  this  evil,  and  endeavored 
to  remedy  it  by  checking  such  unnatural  growth ;  but  this  is 
perhaps  the  most  fatal  error  that  could  be  committed.  The 
mind,  when  it  first  becomes  conscious  of  its  own  capabilities, 
puts  no  limits  to  them,  and  will  only  be  urged  onward  by  each 
barrier  thrown  in  its  way ;  but  a  judicious  hand  may  direct 
its  course,  calm  its  turbulence,  soothe  its  sensitiveness,  and 
teach  it  to  be  its  own  supporter,  without  endangering  in  the 
least  degree  its  freshness  and  originality.  The  power  of  con 
trolling  its  own  impulses  does  not  render  a  nature  tame;  but 
as  it  is  necessary  to  every  person,  how  much  more  so  to  him 
who  has  a  strong,  high  spirit,  that  cannot  be  subdued  by  oth 
ers  ;  that,  spurning  the  control  of  him  who  should  be  its  mas» 
ter,  over-masters  him,  and  is  left  unprotected. 


157 


LILIAS  FANE. 

ABOUT  five  miles  from  Alderbrook  there  is  a  handsome  red 
school-house,  with  a  portico  in  front,  shaded  by  an  immense 
butternut ;  white  window*shutters,  to  keep  out  rogues  at  night, 
but  of  no  use  at  all  during  the  day ;  and  a  handsome  cupola, 
in  which  is  a  bell  of  sufficient  power  to  be  heard,  particularly 
on  still  days,  all  over  the  district.  This  specimen  of  architec 
ture,  being  intended  to  serve  the  double  purpose  of  church  and 
school-house,  is  the  pride  of  the  little  community ;  and,  indeed, 
it  well  may  be,  for  there  is  not  its  equal  in  the  whole  country 
round.  When  the  school-house  was  first  built,  the  neighbors 
all  resolved  to  support  a  "  first-rate  school ;"  and,  for  many 
years,  they  employed  teachers  who  came  well  recommended, 
and  claimed  a  large  salary.  Squire  Mason  said  no  pains  were 
spared,  —  everything  was  done  that  man  could  do  ;  yet,  some 
how,  no  teacher  seemed  to  give  general  satisfaction ;  and  so 
many  left,  either  in  indignation  or  disgrace,  that  "  the  Mason 
school "  gained  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  ungovernable 
in  the  county.  If  truth  must  be  told,  this  was  not  without 
reason;  for  people  who  build  new  school-houses  must,  of  course, 
listen  to  new  doctrines,  and  most  of  the  families  in  "  the  Mason 
district"  had  imbibed  "somewhat  extensively  the  notions  preva 
lent  among  reformers  of  the  present  day,  who  think  that  Sol 
omon  was  only  joking  when  he  recommended  the  rod.  At 
last,  after  some  renegade  youngsters  had  summarily  dismissed, 
with  a  broken  head,  a  dark,  square-shouldered,  piratical  look 
ing  man,  who,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  had  been  chosen  for  his 
enormous  strength,  people  became  quite  discouraged,  and  the 
principal  men  of  the  district,  old  Farmer  Westborn,  Deacon 
Martin,  and  Squire  Mason,  called  a  meeting  to  discuss  affairs. 
Some  proposed  whipping  all  the  boys  round,  and  commencing 

VOL.  TT.  14 


158  LILIAS    FANE. 

a  new  school ;  others  thought  it  best  to  shut  up  the  house 
entirely,  and  set  the  young  rehels  to  cutting  wood;  while 
Deacon  Martin  was  of  the  opinion  that  if  some  of  the  "  worst 
ones"  could  be  kept  at  home,  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
with  the  rest.  Upon  this  hint  others  spake  ;  and  the  meeting 
at  last  decided  on  obtaining  a  female  teacher  to  take  charge 
of  the  little  ones,  the  "  big  boys "  being  entirely  voted  oat. 
Squire  Mason  himself  had  a  son  who  was  considered  a 
"  rollicking  blade,"  up  to  all  sorts  of  mischief;  ad  of  the  half- 
dozen  shock-headed  Westborns,  there  was  not  one  that  had 
failed  to  give  the  former  master  blow  for  blow.  Affairs  were, 
however,  now  to  assume  a  calmer  aspect ;  and  the  meeting 
proceeded  forthwith  to  appoint  a  school-committee,  consisting 
of  Deacon  Martin,  who  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  was 
consequently  expected  to  take  a  great  interest  in  those  of  his 
neighbors ;  Mr.  Fielding,  a  quiet  bachelor  of  thirty-five  or 
thereabout;  and  one  or  two  others,  who  were  selected  for  the 
sake  of  making  the  numbers  strong,  and  not  for  anything 
that  they  were  expected  to  do.  The  principal  duty  of  the  act 
ing  part  of  the  committee  was  to  obtain  a  teacher ;  but  they 
were  also  to  manage  all  other  affairs  thereunto  pertaining. 

Luckily,  a  lady  had  been  recommended  to  Deacon  Martin, 
during  the  preceding  autumn,  as  a  perfect  prodigy ;  and,  as 
our  school-committee  men  were  quiet  sort  of  people,  who  did 
not  like  to  make  unnecessary  trouble,  a  letter,  superscribed 
"  Miss  Lilias  Fane"  was  thrown  into  the  post-office  box,  which, 
in  due  time,  brought  as  favorable  an  answer  as  could  be 
desired. 

It  was  a  cold,  stormy  morning  in  December,  when  the  pub 
lic .  stage-coach  set  down  the  new  schoolmistress  at  the  door 
of  Deacon  Martin's  house.  A  bundle  of  cloaks  ana  blankets 
rolled  from  the  opened  door  into  the  hands  of  the  good  deacon, 
who  was  obliged  to  support,  indeed  almost  to  carry,  an  invis 
ible  form  into  the  house,  where  his  good  dame  stood  ready  to 
divest  it  of  all  unnecessary  incumbrances.  At  first,  a  large 
blanket  was  removed,  then  muff  and  cloak,  and  yet  shawl, 
nood,  and  veil  remained;  and  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  help 


LILIAS    FANE.  159 

conjecturing  how  precious  must  be  the  nut  which  was  blessed 
with  so  much  shell.  The  task  of  untying  strings  and  remov 
ing  pins  being  accomplished,  a  volume  of  flaxen  ringlets 
descended  over  a  pair  of  tiny  white  shoulders,  and  a  soft  blue 
eye  stole  timidly  from  its  silken  ambush  up  to  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Martin ;  but  meeting  no  sympathy  there,  it  retreated  behind 
the  drooping  lid;  and  little  Miss  Fane,  blushing  up  to  the 
pretty  flaxen  waves  that  just  shaded  her  forehead,  smiled,  and 
courtsied,  and  then  crouched  by  the  blazing  fire  like  a  petted 
kitten.  Mrs.  Martin  retreated  involuntarily ;  and  the  deacon 
parted  his  lips,  drew  up  his  eye-brows,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  between  astonishment  and  contempt.  What !  that 
child  assume  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  school  teacher 
and,  above  all,  in  such  a  school !  Why,  Susan  Harman  could 
put  her  out  of  the  door  with  one  hand,  and  the  very  littlest  boy 
overmaster  her.  There  sat  the  new  schoolmistress,  and  there 
stood  the  deacon  and  his  dame,  gazing  at  her,  perfectly  speech 
less,  when  Mr.  Fielding  drove  up  to  the  door ;  it  being  con 
sidered  his  especial  duty  to  introduce  new  teachers,  and 
particularly  lady  teachers,  to  the  school-house.  Now  the 
bachelor  had  some  very  fine  notions  of  tall,  elegant  figures, 
and  dignified  manners  ;  indeed,  he  had  a  rule  for  everything, 
stepping,  looking,  and  even  thinking ;  and,  consequently,  he 
was  taken  quite  by  surprise  when  his  eye  first  lighted  on  the 
unpretending  little  school-mistress.  Her  figure  was  slight,  and 
exceedingly  fragile,  and  her  face  the  very  perfection  of  infan 
tile  sweetness.  This  was  all  that  Mr.  Fielding  had  an  oppor 
tunity  to  observe,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  graceful  confusion, 
replying  to  his  very  formal  salutation,  and  answering  his  still 
more  formal  questions  about  the  weather,  the  state  of  the  roads, 
and  the  time  of  her  arrival.  The  bachelor,  however,  was  con 
fident  that  Miss  Fane  was  a  very  incompetent  school-teacher ; 
and  Miss  Fane  was  quite  as  confident  that  the  bachelor  was 
a  very  incompetent  beau.  First,  he  gave  her  what  the  little 
lady  considered  an  impertinent  stare,  as  a  school-committee- 
man  has  a  right  to  do ;  then  he  made  a  great  many  common 
place  remarks,  as  a  man  that  wishes  to  appear  very  dignified 


160  L1LIAS    FANE. 

will  do ;  and  then  he  desired  to  see  Deacon  Martin  in  private, 
as  a  man  when  he  wishes  to  let  you  know  that  he  is  about  to 
discuss  your  character  should  do.  Poor  Lilias  Fane  !  with 
all  her  simplicity  she  was  not  deficient  in  discernment,  and 
she  felt  piqued  at  the  manners  of  the  people,  particularly  Mr. 
Fielding,  whose  real  superiority  she  instantly  detected,  despite 
of  the  clumsy  awkwardness  behind  which  he  managed  to  hide 
himself.  So,  tossing  back  her  sunny  curls,  and  calling  for 
hood  and  shawl,  iii  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Martin's  entreaties  to  the 
contrary,  she  was  half-way  to  the  school-house  before  the  gen 
tlemen  decided  that  they  could  do  nothing  less  than  give  her 
a  trial.  It  was  with  the  utmost  surprise  that  the  bachelor 
heard  of  the  flight  of  his  bonny  bird ;  for  he  was  the  greatest 
man  in  the  district,  and  every  one  was  but  too  much  delighted 
to  gain  his  notice.  He  owned  a  fine  cottage  close  by  the  Maple 
Grove,  with  beautiful  grounds  about  it,  and  every  elegance 
that  wealth  could  command  and  taste  dictate  within ;  and  there 
he  resided,  with  his  mother  and  a  little  nephew,  in  very  envi 
able  quiet.  It  was  evident  that  his  knowledge  of  the  world 
was  thorough,  and  he  had,  probably,  at  some  period  of  his  life, 
taken  a  part  in  its  tumult ;  but  the  retirement  of  private  life 
best  suited  him,  and  he  had  for  several  years  buried  the  most 
perfect  specimen  of  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  extant  among 
the  rural  luxuries  of  Grove  Cottage.  Here,  however,  none  of 
the  punctilios,  on  which  he  set  so  high  a  value,  were  omitted, 
for  he  was  too  thoroughly  a  gentleman  to  throw  aside  the 
character  when  behind  the  scenes ;  and  all  honored  him  for 
his  strict  integrity,  as  well  as  intellectual  superiority.  Mr. 
Fielding  had  nol  a  particle  of  misanthropy  in  his  composition  ; 
so,  notwithstanding  a  secret  touch  of  exclusive  feeling,  arising 
probably  from  a  consciousness  of  possessing  but  little  in  com 
mon  with  those  around  him,  he  mingled  with  the  people  of 
the  neighborhood  as  though  nothing  but  a  certain  degree  of 
coldness  and  personal  dignity  prevented  him  from  being  on  a 
perfect  equality  with  them ;  and  he  exhibited  so  much  rea 
interest  in  all  that  concerned  their  welfare,  that  he  possessed 
their  entire  confidence. 


LILIAS    FANE.  161 

When  Mr.  Fielding  learned  that  the  little  lady  had  gone 
away  alone,  he  looked  surprised ;  but,  recollecting  how  bashful 
she  had  appeared  when  standing  in  his  august  presence,  he 
at  once  saw  the  matter  in  a  more  pleasing  light ;  so,  calling 
on  Deacon  Martin  to  bestow  his  burly  corpus  in  the  seat 
intended  for  pretty  Lilias  Fane,  the  two  committee-men  pro 
ceeded  leisurely  toward  the  school-house. 

In  the  mean  time  poor  Lilias  was  trudging  through  the  snow, 
her  nether  TIT>  pouting  after  the  most  approved  style  of  angry 
beauties,  and  her  little  heart  throbbing  with  a  variety  of  con 
tending  emotions,  none  of  which  were  actually  pleasurable, 
except  the  one  excited  by  a  little  pile  of  silver  which  she  saw 
in  prospect — the  fruit  of  her  own  labor.  At  thought  of  this, 
she  brushed  away  the  tear  that  sparkled  on  her  lashes,  and, 
drawing  up  her  slight  figure  with  an  air  of  determination, 
stepped  boldly  and  decidedly  into  the  portico  and  placed  her 
hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door.  This  done,  she  paused ;  the 
little  heart,  but  a  moment  before  so  resolute,  fluttered  tumul- 
tuously,  the  head  drooped,  the  eyes  brimmed  over,  and  the 
fingers  extended  so  firmly,  now  quivered  with  agitation.  Poor 
Lilias  Fane  !  what  \vould  she  not  have  given  to  feel  her 
mother's  arms  about  her,  and  weep  on  her  sympathizing 
bosom. 

Farmer  Westborn,  and  Squire  Mason,  and  the  rest  of  the 
school-meeting  men,  were  in  earnest  when  they  decided  that 
the  "  big  boys "  should  not  be  allowed  to  attend  school ;  but 
they  had  been  in  earnest  a  great  many  times  before  ;  so  the 
boys  knew  perfectly  well  what  it  meant,  and  were  now  on 
hand,  preparing  for  the  reception  of  the  new  teacher.  Little 
did  poor  Lilias  Fane  imagine  what  stout  hearts  awaited  her 
entrance,  or  her  courage  would  not  have  been  prompt  to  return ; 
but  the  thought  of  home,  her  widowed  mother,  and  helpless 
little  brothers  and  sisters,  in  connection  with  the  all-important 
salary,  nerved  her  up.  Again  she  erected  her  head  and  wiped 
away  the  tears ;  then,  throwing  open  the  door,  she  walked 
quietly  and  firmly  into  the  room.  What  a  spectacle  !  children 
of  all  sizes,  from  the  little  aproned  chap,  hardly  yet  from  the 

VOL.  II.  14^ 


162  LILIAS    FANE. 

cradle,  up  to  the  height  of  the  new  schoolmistress,  and  youths 
towering  far  above  her,  in  almost  the  pride  of  manhood,  turned 
their  faces  toward  the  door,  and  stood  gaping  in  silent  aston 
ishment.  There  were  Susan  Harman,  and  Sally  Jones,  and 
Nabby  Woods,  all  older  than  the  schoolmistress,  and  several 
others  who  were  larger;  and  at  the  extremity  of  the  room 
stood  Alfred  Mason,  a  man  in  size  if  not  in  form,  surrounded 
by  the  six  shock-headed  Westborns,  Bill  Blount,  Philip  Clute, 
and  Nehemiah  Strong,  all  school  rowdies  of  the  first  water. 
Well  might  they  stare,  for  such  a  vision  never  met  their  eyes 
before;  and  well  might  bright  Lilias  smile  at  the  looks  of 
wonder  that  greeted  her  at  every  turn.  A  smile,  if  it  is  a 
perfectly  natural  one,  full  of  mirthf illness,  and  slightly  spiced 
with  mischief,  is  the  best  of  all  passports  to  a  young  heart ; 
and  not  a  face  was  there  in  the  whole  room  but  caught  the 
infection,  and  answered  with  a  bashful  grin  the  twinkle  of  the 
little  maiden's  eye  and  the  curl  of  her  lip.  Oh !  sadly  did 
naughty  Lilias  compromise  the  dignity  of  the  schoolmistress ; 
but  what  she  lost  in  one  respect  was  more  than  made  up  in 
another.  Nabby  Woods  went  about  brushing  the  slippery 
dried  peas  from  the  floor,  lest  the  smiling  fairy  of  a  new  school- 
dame  should  be  made  their  victim,  as  had  been  duly  planned 
for  a  week  beforehand ;  and  Philip'  Clute,  first  glancing  at 
Alfred  Mason  for  approbation,  stepped  awkwardly  forward  and 
put  a  whole  chair  in  the  place  of  the  broken  one  that  had  been 
stationed  before  the  desk  for  the  benefit  of  the  new  teacher ; 
thus  making  himself  the  first  to  receive  her  cheerful  salutation. 
Philip  had  never  been  known  to  shrink  before  birchen  rod  or 
cherry  ferule ;  but  Lilias  Fane,  with  her  merry  blue  eye  and 
face  full  of  kindness  and  gentleness,  half-hidden  in  the  mirthful 
dimples  which  played  over  it — sweet  Lilias  Fane  was  a  dif 
ferent  thing.  She  could  not  be  looked  upon  with  indifference, 
and  poor  Philip  twisted  himself  into  as  many  shapes  as  a 
cloud-wreath  in  a  tempest,  or  a  captured  eel,  and  turned  as 
red  as  the  blood-beets  in  his  father's  cellar.  On  passed  the 
bright-faced  Lilias  around  the  room,  nodding  to  one,  smiling 
to  another,  and  addressing  some  cheerful  remark  to  those  who 


LILIAS    FANE.  163 

seemed  a  little  afraid  of  her,  until  she  reached  the  group  over 
which  the  redoubtable  Mason  presided.  By  this  time  she  had 
gained  all  hearts  ;  for  hadn't  she  said  ive  when  talking  to  the 
"big  girls,"  as  though  she  didn't  feel  herself  a  bit  above 
them?  and  hadn't  she  patted  the  heads  of  the  younger  ones 
with  her  pretty  little  hand,  in  a  way  which  proved  beyond  the 
possibility  of  a  doubt,  that  she  was  a  decided  enemy  to  hair- 
pulling  ?  Alfred  Mason  had  seen  it  all,  and,  to  prove  to  the 
new  schoolmistress  that  he  was  a  little  superior  to  the  West- 
borns  &  Co.,  he  advanced  three  steps  and  made  a  bow  as 
much  like  Mr.  Fielding's  as  he  could.  This  done,  he  passed 
his  fingers  through  -his  shining  black  hair,  twitched  his  shirt- 
collar,  and  elevated  head  and  shoulders  after  a  very  manly 
fashion,  as  though  silently  resolving  not  to  be  afraid  of  any 
thing  this  side  of  fairy  land,  though  appearing  in  the  shape  of 
Titania  herself.  But  bewitching,  roguish,  naughty  Miss 
Fane  did  bewilder  him  notwithstanding ;  for,  having  always 
considered  himself  a  rascally  scape-grace  of  a  boy,  bound  to 
do  as  much  mischief  as  he  could,  he  suddenly  found  himself 
transformed  into  a  man ;  and  a  beautiful  creature,  with  a  child's 
blushes  and  a  woman's  smiles,  asking  him  questions  in  the 
most  respectful  tone,  hoping  that  she  should  be  seconded  by 
the  young  gentlemen  before  her  in  all  her  efforts,  and  insinu 
ating,  very  gracefully  and  very  sweetly,  h6w  much  she  relied 
upon  them  for  success  in  her  present  undertaking.  The 
smile,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  manner,  combined  with  the  flat 
tering  address,  were  perfectly  irresistible  ;  and  Alfred  Mason, 
after  perpetrating  another  bow,  addressed  a  few  whispered 
words  to  his  companions,  and  walked  away  to  a  seat.  His 
example  was  immediately  followed  by  the  whole  school,  and 
Miss  Fane  was  left  standing  in  the  midst  of  subjects  as  loyal 
as  any  sovereign  would  care  to  reign  over.  At  this  agreeable 
crisis  the  door  opened,  and  it  may  well  be  believed  that  in 
every  dimple  of  Lilias  Fane's  young  face  lurked  a  roguish 
smile,  as  her  eye  lighted  on  Mr.  Fielding  and  Deacon  Martin. 
The  bachelor  observed  it,  and  he  was  "  the  least  bit  in  the 
world  "  disconcerted,  while  the  deacon  raised  his  eye-brows 


164  LILIAS   FANE. 

and  shrugged  his  shoulders  more  emphatically  than  ever,  but 
not  contemptuously.  If  the  two  committee-men  had  been 
astonished  before,  they  were  doubly  so  now ;  and  it  was  with 
a  much  more  respectful  air  than  he  had  at  first  assumed,  thai 
Mr.  Fielding  saluted  the  little  lady,  and  apologized  for  his  pre 
vious  neglect. 

"  You  have  undertaken  a  very  heavy  task,  Miss  Fane,"  he 
remarked,  in  a  tone  which,  from  the  proximity  of  the  audience 
on  the  seats,  was  necessarily  low,  and  thus  seemingly  confi 
dential. 

Thoughtless  Lilias  !  she  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "  It 
is  a  dreadful  responsible  station,"  chimed  in  the  deacon. 

A  shade  of  seriousness  flitted  over  the  face  of  Lilias,  and 
then  she  smiled  again. 

"  Our  school  is  considered  a  very  difficult  one,"  observed 
the  bachelor. 

"  I  apprehend  no  difficulty  at  all,"  Lilias  replied,  in  a  tone 
of  gayety. 

"  But,  Miss  Fane,"  persisted  the  deacon,  "  it  is  my  duty  to 
undeceive  you  as  to  the  character  of  our  school." 

Still  the  little  lady  smiled  confidently. 

"  Very  difficult  to  manage,  I  can  assure  you,"  added  the 
bachelor. 

Lilias  glanced  around  the  room  with  a  triumphant,  incred 
ulous  air,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It  seems  to  me  just  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world,"  (the  saucy  little  gypsy  !)  — but  she  did  not 
say  it.  Her  only  reply  was  to  beg  the  privilege  of  consulting 
two  such  able  advisers,  should  she  chance  to  meet  with  unex 
pected  difficulties.  The  deacon  received  the  compliment  gra 
ciously,  not  probably  observing  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  more  dis 
coverable  in  the  dancing  blue  eye  than  in  the  voice ;  but  Mr. 
Fielding  looked  displeased,  bowed  stiffly,  and,  after  a  few 
formal  words,  took  his  leave,  followed  by  the  worthy  deacon. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  remarked  Deacon  Martin,  after  they 
were  seated  in  the  sleigh,  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  little 
Miss  Fane  made  a  pretty  good  teacher  after  all.  It's  won 
derful  that  the  children  should  be  so  orderly  this  morning." 


LILIAS    FAME.  165 

Mr.  Fielding  gave  his  head  a  twitch,  something  between  a 
shake  and  a  nod,  and  looked  knowing.  It  was  evident  that 
he  could  say  a  great  deal  if  he  chose.  This  non-committal 
movement  is  Wisdom's  favorite  cloak ;  and  so  much  in  vogue 
is  it,  that  it  sometimes  even  passes  current  when  the  cloaked 
is  missing. 

For  that  day  at  least  Lilias  Fane  was  happy.  She  smiled 
and  was  smiled  upon.  And  she  began  to  think  it  was  just 
the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  the  presiding  genius 
of  such  a  place,  exercising  uncontrolled  power,  dispensing 
smiles  and  sunshine  at  will,  beloved  and  loving.  But  her  day 
of  darkness  was  to  come.  Scarce  a  week  had  passed  before 
there  were  indications  of  a  revolt  among  some  of  her  subjects  > 
and  she  was  alarmed  to  find  that  there  were  difficulties 
which  a  smile  and  a  loving  word  could  not  heal.  At  home, 
her  dear  delightful  home,  she  had  been  taught  to  believe  them 
a  universal  balm  —  oil  for  the  wildest  wave,  a  hush  for  the 
deadliest  tempest.  But  yet,  never  was  schoolmistress  idol 
ized  like  darling  Lilias  Fane.  Even  the  hearts  of  the  West- 
borns  began  to  melt  beneath  the  glances  of  her  beaming  eye, 
and  Alfred  Mason  was  her  never-failing  friend  and  champion. 
Poor  Alf  Mason  !  Sad  was  the  reputation  he  bore  in  the 
district ;  and  nobody  would  believe  he  was  in  earnest  when 
he  behaved  properly ;  but  he  was  in  reality  more  given  to 
mirth  than  malice,  fonder  of  fun  than  real  mischief —  and  he 
could  see  no  fan  at  all  in  annoying  sweet  Miss  Fane.  But 
she  was  annoyed  nevertheless,  not  so  much  by  her  pupils,  as 
by  remarks  which  were  constantly  reaching  her  concerning 
her  youth,  inexperience,  and  consequent  inefficiency.  It  was 
said  that  she  was  a  child  among  the  children ;  and  so  she  wras, 
but  how  could  she  help  it  —  the  bright  pet  Lilias  !  Scarce 
sixteen  summers  had  burnished  her  fair  locks,  and  her  heart 
was  full  of  childish  impulses.  It  was  said  that  she  had  no 
dignity  of  manner,  and  stood  among  her  pupils  as  one  of  them 
—  faults  which  she  was  but  too  conscious  of  possessing.  As 
well  might  you  look  for  dignity  in  a  humming-bird,  or  a  fawn, 
as  in  Lilias  Fane  —  the  darling!  She  loved  her  pupils 


166  LILIAS   FANE. 

dearly,  and  could  not  but  betray  her  interest.  She  had  too 
many  sympathies  in  common  with  them  to  stand  aloof  in  joy 
or  sorrow ;  and  in  the  loved  and  the  loving1  were  merged  the 
teacher  and  the  taught.  It  was  even  said  that  her  voice  had 
been  known  to  mingle  in  the  merry  shout  that  sometimes 
arose  from  the  school-room ;  and  there  must  have  been  some 
truth  in  the  report ;  for  her  pupils  could  not  have  had  the 
heart  to  laugh  when  she  was  serious.  In  truth,  Lilias  Fane 
was  a  strange  teacher ;  though  she  may  have  taught  the  lore 
most  needed  —  those  heart-lessons,  richer  than  all  the  theories 
of  all  the  schools  united.  In  her  other  lessons  she  was  capri 
cious.  She  taught  what  she  loved,  and  that  she  made  her 
pupils  love ;  but  what  was  dry  and  difficult  she  passed  over, 
as  in  studying  she  had  been  allowed  to  do  by  her  too  indul 
gent  governess.  Yet  she  was  unwearied  in  her  efforts,  and 
never  thought  of  self  when  the  good  of  her  pupils  was  con 
cerned  ;  and  so,  despite  the  faults  in  her  system  of  education, 
her  school  made  rapid  improvement.  But  no  degree  of 
improvement  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  those  who  detected  these 
faults ;  and  soon  the  war  of  words  ran  high  for  and  against 
the  poor  schoolmistress,  whose  only  offences  were  too  much 
beauty,  too  immature  youth,  and  a  too  kind  heart.  These 
things  could  not  occur  without  Miss  Fane's  knowledge  ;  for 
her  young  friends,  in  their  mistaken  zeal,  repeated  every  word 
to  her,  and  she  (poor  simple-hearted  child  !)  was  undignified 
enough  to  listen  to  their  representations,  and  receive  their 
expressions  of  sympathy.  They  were  all  the  friends  she  had. 
Thus  passed  one  third  of  Lilias  Fane's  term  of  service,  in 
alternate  storm  and  sunshine,  till  at  last  Farmer  Westborn 
took  a  decided  step ;  and,  in  spite  of  young  shock-heads' 
remonstrances,  removed  all  of  his  six  children  from  school. 
Sad  wras  the  face  poor  Lilias  Fane  exhibited  on  this  occasion  ; 
and  all  of  her  flock  were  sad  from  sympathy.  Looks,  some 
of  sorrow  and  some  of  indignation,  were  exchanged  among 
the  elder  pupils ;  and  the  younger  ones  gazed  in  silent  won 
der  on  the  flushed  face  and  tearful  eye  of  her,  who,  neverthe 
less,  wc\ild  now  and  then  give  them  a  smile,  from  sheer  habit. 


LILIAS    FANE.  167 

At  last  the  day  ended,  and  sad,  and  low,  and  kinder  even  than 
usual,  were  the  good-nights  of  the  sympathizing  group,  as,  one 
by  one,  they  disappeared  through  the  door,  till  the  poor  little 
school-mistress  was  left  alone ;  and  then  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  wept. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  Miss  Fane,"  said  a  timid,  but  sympa 
thizing  voice  close  by  her  ear. 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  Alfred  ?  "  asked  weeping  Lilias,  with 
out  raising  her  head ;  "  Mr.  Westborn  must  have  a  sad  opinion 
of  me,  or  he  never — " 

"  Mr.  Westborn  is  a  fool !  the  meanest  man — " 

"  Alfred !" 

"  You  don't  know  him,  Miss  Fane,  or  you  would  say  so  too. 
But  don't  cry  any  more  —  don't ;  come  over  and  see  Mary 
— you  have  true  friends,  Miss  Fane — you — they — "  and 
here  Alfred  stopped  short ;  for,  although  particularly  anxious 
to  console  Miss  Fane,  he  seemed  to  be  suffering  under  a  most 
painful  embarrassment.  The  gentle,  indeed  touching  tone  of 
voice  was  not  lost  on  poor  Lilias ;  although  there  seemed  to 
be  some  reason  why  she  should  not  listen  to  it ;  for  she  raised 
her  head,  and,  with  more  calmness  than  she  could  have  been 
expected  to  command,  replied,  "  You  are  very  kind,  Alfred, 
and  I  thank  you,  but — " 

"  I  understand  you,  Miss  Fane,"  interrupted  the  youth, 
somewhat  proudly;  "  kindness  should  not  be  too  obtrusive." 

"  No,  Alfred,  you  mistake  me.  I  prize  the  sympathy  of 
my  friends  but  too  highly ;  and  it  is  gratifying  to  know  that 
all  my  pupils,  if  no  others,  are  of  the  number." 

"Yes,  they  all  are — yet — Miss — Miss  Fane — -,"  and 
Alfred  stammered  on,  more  embarrassed  than  ever. 

"  I  can  assure  them  that  their  kindness  will  be  remembered 
most  gratefully,  and  their  friendship  warmly  returned,"  added 
Miss  Fane,  with  a  gentle  dignity,  which  prevented  familiarity, 
while  it  soothed. 

Alfred  Mason  stood  for  a  few  moments  irresolute,  and 
Lilias  resumed.  "  To  you,  in  particular,  Alfred,  am  I  deeply 
indebted.  You  have  defended  me  in  my  absence,  assisted 


168  LILIAS   FANE. 

me  in  school,  both  by  your  example  and  counsel ;  and  have 
performed  the  thousand  little  services  which  have  contributed 
thus  far  to  make  my  time  here  among  strangers  pass  so  agree 
ably.  I  shall  never  forget  you,  kind,  generous  friend  that  you 
are  !  And  Mary,  too  —  my  own  brother  and  sister  could  not 
have  watched  more  carefully  over  my  comfort  and  happiness. 
I  have  much  to  say  to  you  of  this,  but  not  now.  To-night  I 
have  subjects  of  thought  less  pleasant,  and  must  be  alone." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  trouble  you,  Miss  Fane,  but  I  came  to 
tell  you  there  is  to  be  a  school-meeting  to-night.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  were  a  man !  in  influence,  I  mean,  for  I  know  that  I 
have  a  man's  soul,  a  —  " 

"  What  is  the  school-meeting  for,  Alfred  ? " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fielding  —  cross  old  bachelor  ! — but  I  won't  tell 
you  anything  about  it — it's  too  provoking  !" 

"I  shouldn't  expect  any  good  from  Mr.  Fielding,"  said 
Lilias,  with  an  unusual  degree  of  acrimony.  Why  so  exceed 
ingly  indignant  at  him,  when,  if  he  had  not  sympathized,  he 
surely  had  done  thee  no  injury,  gentle  Lilias  ? 

"  He  !  no  danger  of  his  doing  good  anywhere  —  though  he 
says  he  'pities  the  young  lady' — pities!  But  who  do  you 
think  he  wants  to  get  in  your  place  ?  " 

Lilias  stood  aghast,  for  in  all  her  troubles  the  thought  of 
losing  her  situation  had  not  occurred  to  her ;  and  now  they 
had  actually  planned  her  removal,  and  were  about  appointing 
a  successor.  "  Who,  Alfred  ?  "  she  gasped,  tremblingly. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  Miss  Fane  —  that  ugly,  cross,  vin 
egar-faced  Miss  Digby — it  is  too  bad!  At  any  rate,  they 
will  rue  the  day  they  get  her  here.  What  is  the  matter,  Miss 
Fane  ?  you  are  as  pale  as  death." 

"  Nothing — go  now,  Alfred — you  shall  tell  me  more  to 
morrow." 

Well  might  young  Lilias  Fane  turn  pale,  poor  child !  at 
this  intelligence ;  for  at  that  very  moment  she  held  her 
mother's  last  letter  in  her  bosom ;  and  in  that  letter  had  the 
fond,  hoping  mother  rejoiced  over  the  bright  prospects  of  her 
darling,  called  her  the  guardian  angel  of  the  family,  and  hoped 


LILIAS    FANE.  169 

that  through  her  efforts,  comfort  might  again  be  restored  to 
their  little  home.  And  now  to  be  obliged  to  return  in  dis 
grace,  disappoint  the  expectations  of  that  doting  parent,  and 
become  a  burden  where  she  should  be  a  helper,  was  too  much 
—  more  than  she  could  bear.  Alfred  obeyed  her,  and  retired 
in  sorrowful  silence ;  and  poor  Lilias,  pressing  one  small  hand 
upon  her  aching  head,  paced  the  floor  in  a  bitterness  of  spirit 
that  she  had  never  felt  before.  We  may  be  angels  while  love 
makes  an  Eden  for  us ;  but  when  we  go  out  among  the  thorns, 
we  find  another  spirit  rising  up,  and  learn,  alas !  that  we  are 
not  yet  all  meekness  and  purity.  The  disheartening  lesson 
was  embittering  still  more  the  spirit  of  Lilias,  as  she  paced  up 
and  down  her  deserted  room.  But  why  should  Mr.  Fielding 
be  so  unkind  ?  how  had  she  offended  him  ?  These  questions 
puzzled  her  most  painfully ;  and  then,  heavily  and  hopelessly, 
came  thoughts  of  the  future.  What  should  she  do  ?  She 
was  sure  of  the  sympathy  of  good-natured  Mary  Mason ;  but 
such  a  friend  was  scarce  sufficient  for  the  exigency.  There 
was  no  one  to  advise  her,  no  one  who,  acquainted  with  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  could  say  what  was  for  the  best; 
no  one  even  who  could  be  made  to  comprehend  her  feelings. 
And  she  longed  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles  in  some  friendly 
bosom.  Once  the  thought  of  Alfred  Mason  crossed  her  mind, 
but  she  only  muttered,  blushing  even  there,  "  kind,  silly 
boy  !"  and  again  recurred  to  the  one  grand  question — what 
should  she  do  ?  In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  a  footstep 
sounded  on  the  threshold,  and  before  she  had  time  to  wonder 
who  was  there,  Mr.  Fielding  stood  before  her.  The  surprise 
seemed  mutual ;  but  Lilias,  probably  from  her  sense  of  injury, 
was  the  first  to  recover  her  presence  of  mind.  She  crushed  a 
whole  shower  of  bright  crystals  that  were  in  the  act  of 
descending,  elevated  her  head,  and  with  a  slight  courtesy,  was 
proceeding  to  adjust  her  cloak,  when  Mr.  Fielding  approached 
her. 

"  Excuse   me,  Miss  Fane,  for  this  intrusion  ;   I  did  not 
expect  to  find  you  here,  but  since  I  have,  perhaps  you  will 
favor  me  with  a  few  moments'  conversation." 
15 


170  LILIAS    FANE. 

"  With  pleasure,  sir,  in  a  proper  place,"  said  Lilias,  keop- 
ing  down  her  anger  with  a  strong  effort.  "  I  presume  Deacon 
Martin  will  be  happy  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  you  that  I  wish  to  see,  Miss  Fane,  and  for  that,  I 
shall  have  no  good  opportunity  at  Deacon  Martin's." 

"  Your  communication  must  be  of  consequence,"  said 
Lilias,  endeavoring  to  assume  an  air  of  carelessness. 

"  You  are  right  —  it  is  of  some  consequence  to  you,  and  so, 
of  course,  to  your  friends." 

"  Among  which,  I  am  well  aware,  that  I  have?  not  the  honor 
to  reckon  Mr.  Fielding,"  said  Lilias,  provoked  beyond  endur 
ance,  by  this  seeming  duplicity.  The  bachelor  was  evidently 
the  most  imperturbable  of  mortals.  The  little  maiden's  eye 
flashed,  and  her  cheeks  were  crimson  with  indignation ;  but 
not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved ;  he  neither  looked  confused 
nor  angry,  but  in  his  usual  tone,  replied,  "  I  will  not  contend 
with  you  upon  that  point,  Miss  Fane,  for  mere  professions  are 
empty  things.  However,  it  is  my  wish  to  act  the  part  of  a 
friend  by  you  now." 

"  You  will  have  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  your  friendship 
in  the  school-meeting,  this  evening,"  said  Lilias,  with  a  curl 
ing  lip ;  "  and,  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  it  is  your  intention  to 
do  so." 

Strange  to  say,  Mr.  Fielding  was  not  yet  demolished,  but 
with  increasing  sang  froid  he  replied,  "  If  you  had  received 
less  information  from  injudicious  persons,  it  might  have  been 
better  for  you,  and  most  assuredly  would  have  saved  you 
much  unhappiness." 

The  little  lady  trotted  her  foot  in  vexation,  for  she  knew 
his  remark  to  be  true  ;  meantime,  muttering  something  about 
even  injudicious  friends  being  preferable  to  the  most  punctil 
ious  enemies. 

"  There  I  beg  leave  to  dissent,"  ^aid  Mr.  Fielding,  with 
perfect  coolness;  "honorable  enemies — " 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Lilias,  losing  all  patience. 
"  I  am  not  in  a  mood  for  discussion  to-night,  and  .you — it  is 
almost  time  for  the  school-meeting." 


LILIAS    FANE.  171 

"  The  school-meeting  has  been  deferred." 

"  Deferred  ! "  Miss  Fane's  young  face  brightened,  like  the 
sky  with  an  April  sun-flash,  for  what  might  not  a  little  more 
time  do  for  her  ?  and  she  extended  her  hand  involuntarily, 
while  a  "  forgive  me"  hovered  on  her  smile-wreathed  lips. 

"  It  will  not  take  place  till  next  week ;  and  in  the  mean 
time,"  continued  Mr.  Fielding,  hesitatingly,  "  it  would — if  1 
might  —  if  you  would  but  have  confidence  in  my  motives, 
Miss  Fane,  I  would  venture  a  piece  of  advice." 

"  To  which  I  am  bound  to  listen,"  said  Lilias,  gayly,  and 
turning  upon  the  adviser  a  face  radiant  with  happiness ;  for 
the  week's  respite  had  quite  restored  her  fallen  spirits. 

"Bound?" 

"  From  choice,  I  mean,"  said  Lilias,  with  a  smile  which 
made  the  bachelor  quite  forget  that  she  had  been  angry. 

"  Then  I  will  talk  freely  as  to  a  friend — a  sister,"  and  Mr. 
Fielding  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  hurried  his  words,  as 
though  the  ice  might  be  beginning  to  thaw.  "  Your  position 
must  be  a  very  painful  one.  You  have,  I  know,  gained  all 
hearts,  but  the  judgments  of  many  are  against  you,  and  the 
prejudices  of  more.  You  have  many  professed  friends,  and 
they  do  indeed  feel  kindly  toward  you ;  but  each  has  some 
petty  interest  to  serve,  some  feeling  of  rivalry  to  gratify,  and 
there  is  not  one  among  them,  in  whom  you  can  place  implicit 
confidence." 

"  I  know  it !  I  have  felt  it  all,  only  too  deeply,  too  bitterly . 
but  what  can  I  do  ?  Oh,  if  my  mother  could  be  here  ! "  and, 
overcome  by  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Lilias  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Then  go  to  her,  Miss  Fane — go  to-morrow — her  disin 
terestedness  you  cannot  doubt." 

"  N(5r  is  there  room  for  doubt  in  the  case  of  another  per 
son,"  retorted  Lilias,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness.  "  You  have  at 
least  the  merit  of  dealing  openly,  Mr.  Fielding." 

"  You  distrust  me  without  cause,  Miss  Fane,"  said  the 
bachelor,  warmly ;  "  it  is  to  save  you  pain,  that  I  recommend 
this  course  ;  and  it  was  in  the  hope  of  inducing  you  to  with- 


172  LILIAS    FANE. 

draw,  that  I  persuaded  them  to  defer  the  meeting.  We  have 
coarse  natures  here,  and  you  must  not  come  in  contact  with 
them.  Allow  me  to  advise  you,  and  do  not  enter  your  school 
again." 

Poor  Lilias  Fane  !  the  net  was  about  her,  and  flutter  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  get  free.  "  Then  they  intend  to  dismiss 
me  ?  "  she  asked,  despondingly. 

"  If  you  give  them  the  opportunity,  I  fear  they  will." 

"  What  have  I  done,  Mr.  Fielding,  to  deserve  this?" 

"  Everything  that  is  good  and  praiseworthy ;  but  a  district 
school  is  not  the  place  for  one  like  you.  A  school-teacher 
must  not  be  too  sensitive  —  she  must  know  how  to  endure,  to 
return  bufferings." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fielding,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  necessary  for  a 
school-teacher  to  be  bad  or  heartless.  I  know  what  unfits  me 
for  the  place  —  I  have  too  little  character — too  little  self- 
dependence; — but  I  should  improve  —  I  am  sure  I  should.  I 
cannot  leave  my  school  until  I  am  obliged  to  leave  it ;  as  per 
haps  even  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe,  I  would  have 
undertaken  it  only  from  necessity.  Even  a  week  is  of  impor 
tance  to  me." 

"  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  inquire  your  motive,  Miss 
Fane,  but  I  have  felt  assured  that  it  was  no  unworthy  one, 
and  your  partial  failure  is  attended  with  no  disgrace.  Indeed," 
and  there  was  so  much  sincerity  in  Mr.  Fielding's  words,  that 
he  did  not  think  how  warmly  he  was  praising,  "I  have 
watched  your  patience,  your  industry,  your  gentleness  and 
sweetness,  with  admiration;  and  it  is  to  the  very  qualities 
most  admirable,  that  your  want  of  success  may  be  traced." 

"  And  so  I  must  go  !"  exclaimed  Lilias,  with  a  fresh  gush 
of  feeling.  "  My  poor,  poor  mother !  Indeed,  Mr.  Fielding 
— but  you  must  be  my  friend,  and  I  will  do  as  you  bid 
me,  for  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  to  say  just  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

The  bachelor  was  almost  as  much  agitated  as  poor  Lilias 
Fane.  Fresh  interest  seemed  to  be  gathering  around  the 
little  school-mistress,  and  yet  he  had  too  much  delicacy  to 


ULIAS    FANE.  173 

press  inquiries,  which  at  any  other  time  would  seem  imperti 
nent.  There  was,  however,  a  better  understanding  between 
the  school-committee-man  and  the  lady-teacher ;  and  so 
another  half  hour  was  passed  in  conversation  without  a  single 
angry  word,  after  which,  the  two  emerged  from  the  school- 
house  together,  and  taking  a  seat  in  the  sleigh,  proceeded 
toward  Deacon  Martin's. 

That  night,  bright  young  Lilias  Fane,  for  almost  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  went  to  her  pillow  with  an  aching  heart, 
though  caused  by  a  seeming  trifle  in  comparison  with  her 
other  sources  of  sorrow.  Nurtured  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  made 
beggars  by  the  death  of  a  husband  and  father,  who  was  an 
object  of  almost  idolatry  to  a  loving,  helpless  group ;  visited 
by  disappointment,  neglect  and  sickness,  the  little  family  had 
struggled  on  and  been  happy.  They  had  stemmed  the  tor 
rent  together.  But  Mrs.  Fane's  exertions  were  wasting  life. 
Lilias  was  the  eldest  child,  and  her  only  dependence.  What 
could  the  delicate,  fragile  young  girl  do,  to  be  useful  ?  Plain 
sewing  yielded  but  slight  recompense  to  fingers  too  little 
accustomed  to  its  mysteries,  and,  in  the  retirement  which  Mrs. 
Fane  had  chosen,  ornamental  needle-work  found  no  market. 
True,  Lilias  knew  something  of  drawing  and  music ;  but  she 
had  never  thought  of  either  as  a  profession,  and  she  felt  con 
scious  that  her  knowledge  of  both  was  too  superficial  to  turn 
to  account.  Little  did  Mrs.  Fane  or  Lilias  know  of  a  district 
school,  particularly  in  the  winter;  but  they  knew  that  teaching 
was  considered  a  respectable  employment ;  so  the  trial  was 
made,  and  bitter  to  Lilias  was  the  result. 

The  next  morning  the  children  assembled  at  the  school- 
house  as  usual,  but  they  were  soon  dispersed  by  the  sad 
intelligence  that  Miss  Fane  had  been  called  suddenly  home ; 
which  information  caused  quite  a  sensation  throughout  the 
district.  Alfred  Mason  kicked  over  the  breakfast  table  when 
he  heard  the  news,  declared  that  it  was  Mr.  Fielding's  work, 
and  he  ought  to  be  hanged,  and  chopped  wood  furiously  all 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

Some  people  thought  it  quite  strange  that  Miss  Fane  did 

vol..  u.  15* 


174  L1LIAS    FANE. 

not  go  home  in  the  stage-coach,  as  she  came,  and  there  was 
some  little  gossiping  on  the  subject ;  but  Mrs.  Martin  said 
Mr.  Fielding  had  convinced  her  that  his  sleigh,  with  the  buf 
falo  robes,  was  much  more  comfortable,  and  warm,  and  safe, 
and  had  talked  so  much  of  the  inconveniences  of  stage-coach 
travelling,  that  the  good  dame  declared  she  should  "  be  afeared 
of  the  ugly  things  all  the  days  of  her  life." 

In  the  mean  time,  the  lady  and  gentleman  were  pursuing 
their  way  very  sociably,  if  not  very  happily ;  and  Lilias 
found,  to  her  infinite  astonishment,  that  Mr.  Fielding,  when 
he  threw  off  the  school-committee-man,  and  had  no  unpleasant 
point  to  gain,  (such  as  telling  a  lady  she  is  mistaken  in  her 
vocation,)  could  be  vastly  agreeable.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  draw  a  picture  of  her  successor,  the  vinegar-faced  Miss 
Digby,  at  which  Lilias  laughed  so  heartily  that  she  could  not 
help  wondering  the  next  moment  what  had  become  of  her 
sadness.  Looking  for  sadness,  or  any  other  unwelcome  visi 
tor,  (vide  the  old  adage,)  is  the  very  way  to  bring  it  to  your 
presence ;  and  so  Mr.  Fielding  felt  himself  called  upon  to  play 
the  agreeable  to  an  unusual  extent ;  and  Lilias  wondered  how 
she  could  be  so  happy,  until  she  was  obliged  to  explain  the 
cause  of  her  misery,  just  for  the  sake  of  refreshing  her  mem 
ory.  And  then  Mr.  Fielding  was  sad  too — oh,  so  sad  !  And 
then  he  said  something  in  a  very  low  tone  —  doubtless  to  let 
her  know  how  much  he  pitied  her ;  but  it  must  have  been 
awkwardly  done,  for  Lilias  blushed  a  great  deal  more  than 
when  she  was  angry  with  him.  Mr.  Fielding  blushed,  too, 
and  both  looked  as  though  they  were  quite  ready  to  quarrel 
again.  What  a  lucky  circumstance  that  they  did  not  arrive 
at  this  crisis  before,  for  now  Lilias  exclaimed,  joyously,  "  Oh, 
we  are  home  ! "  and  the  sleigh  drew  up  before  Mrs.  Fane's 
door. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  whether  Mrs.  Fane  felt  more 
gladness  or  surprise  at  sight  of  Lilias;  and  the  little  ones 
gathered  around  her,  "  all  clamorous,"  not  "  for  bread,"  but 
kisses. 

Mr.  Fielding  glanced  from  the  noisy,  happy  group  to  the 


LILIAS    FANE.  175 

pale,  thin  face  of  the  mother,  and  then  around  upon  the  scanty 
furniture ;  and,  callous  old  bachelor  as  he  was,  he  felt  his 
heart  swelling  in  his  throat,  and  the  moisture  in  his  eye  made 
him  ashamed  of  himself. 

Mr.  Fielding  did  not  return  home  that  day,  for  his  horse 
had  lost  a  shoe,  which  it  was  necessary  should  be  replaced ; 
and  the  next  day  there  came  a  snow-storm,  which  only  a 
madman  would  brave  ;  then  the  third  day,  I  do  not  quite  know 
what  detained  him,  but  it  must  have  been  something  of 
importance,  as  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  exchange 
the  comforts  of  home  for  the  inconveniences  of  a  village  hotel, 
without  sufficient  reason.  On  the  fourth  day,  however, 
toward  night,  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  undertake  his  home 
ward  journey ;  but,  before  this,  he  was  closeted  a  long  time 
with  the  again  radiant  Lilias,  and  afterward,  with  her  mother ; 
and  he  finally  quitted  them,  with  a  face  so  brimming  over 
with  happiness,  as  to  show — perhaps  —  how  glad  he  was  to 
get  away ! 

Early  the  ensuing  spring,  the  cottage  down  by  the  Maple 
Grove  had  a  new  mistress ;  and  another,  close  by,  was  pur 
chased  and  fitted  up  tastefully,  for  a  pale,  sweet  widow  and 
her  bright-eyed  children ;  the  eldest  of  whom,  Alfred  Mason 
declares  a  vast  deal  prettier  than  her  sister  Lilias. 


176 


THE   TWO  FLOWERS. 

A  FLOWER  peeped  out  from  the  folds  of  green 

Which  had  long  about  it  lain ; 
A  dainty  thing  in  purple  sheen, 

Without  a  blight  or  stain. 
A  brighter  bud  ne'er  burst,  I  ween, 

In  bower,  on  hill,  or  plain. 

And  the  breeze  came  out  and  kissed  its  lip, 

And  the  sun  looked  in  its  eye ; 
And  the  golden  bee,  its  sweets  to  sip, 

Kept  all  day  buzzing  by ; 
There  chose  the  grasshopper  to  skip ; 

There  glanced  the  butterfly. 

A  human  soul  from  that  young  flower 

Seemed  glorying  in  the  light ; 
And  when  came  on  the  mellow  hour, 

The  blossom  still  was  bright ; 
And  then  there  crept  around  the  bower 

A  dark  and  solemn  night. 

Gay  dawn  her  portal^  open  flung, 

But  the  floweret  looked  not  up ; 
There  on  its  light-poised  stem  it  hung, 

A  tear  within  its  cup ; 
Close  to  its  heart  the  woe-drop  clung ; 

And  the  floweret  looked  not  up. 

The  winning  breezes  whispered  round  ; 

Warm  sun-rays  came  a-wooing ; 
And  bright-winged,  bliss-born  things  were  found 

Beside  its  petals  suing ; 
But  the  flower  bent  lower  to  the  ground, 

Those  petals  on  it  strewing. 


THE    TWO    FLOWERS.  177 

And  when  I  saw  the  blossom  dead, 

Upon  the  dewy  sod, 
I  thought  of  one  whose  bright  young  head 

Is  pillowed  by  the  clod ; 
Who  stayed  one  sorrowing  tear  to  shed, 

Then  bore  it  to  her  God. 


178 


RUG   RAFFLES. 

SOVEREIGNS  of  the  olden  time  had  their  jesters ;  and  the 
"  sovereign  people"  on  this  side  the  water  have  revived  the 
fashion,  with  several  other  useful  things  dug  up  from  the 
rubbish  of  the  past.  Every  circle  constituting  a  court,  every 
individual  of  which  is  a  king,  has  its  "  queer  genius ;"  and 
every  little  village  has  its  privileged  quizzer,  its  regularly  in 
stalled  jester.  It  is  this  important  personage  who  goes  about 
at  night  changing  signs ;  leaving  the  barber's  pole  at  the  door 
of  the  merchant  most  renowned  for  shaving ;  putting  "  turn 
ing"  on  the  county  Surrogate's  office,  and  "  fancy  goods"  on 
the  young  ladies'  seminary.  The  same  enterprising  gentle 
man  pastes  a  little  slip  of  white  paper  over  the  M,  when  the 
hand-bills  announce  that  there  is  to  be  a  mass  meeting  ;  sews 
up  the  top  of  his  bed-fellow's  hose ;  rings  door-bells  on  his 
way  home  from  a  pleasant  spree  at  midnight ;  and  imitates 
most  successfully  the  inarticulate  language  of  every  animal, 
from  the  tremulously  vain  crow  of  the  novice  cock,  up  to  the 
roar  of  the  infuriated  bull !  Oh,  what  a  terror  the  humor- 
loving  wight  is  to  adventurous  children  and  housemaids  in 
search  of  recreation ! 

We  are  not  without  our  jester  at  Alderbrook,  of  course ; 
as  well  dispense  with  hot  coffee  and  muffins  at  breakfast. 
Ruggles  Raffles,  the  gentleman  who  officiates  in  the  capacity 
of  mirth-maker  general  to  their  majesties  the  sovereign  people 
of  Alderbrook,  is  a  fat,  jolly  personage,  with  a  peculiarly  fun 
ny  rolling  gait  when  he  walks,  and  a  way,  quite  as  peculiar 
and  quite  as  funny,  of  putting  up  his  feet  or  hands  when  he 
sits.  There  is  a  laugh  nestled  in  every  curve  of  his  big,  ugly 
fingers,  whether  they  exercise  their  muscles  in  expressive 
gestures,  or  lay  themselves  away  to  rest  on  his  knee;  and  the 
knee  itself  crooks  a  little  differently  from  any  other  mortal 


RUG   RAFFLES.  179 

knee,  so  that  you  mechanically  pinch  your  lips  together  when 
you  look  at  it,  to  prevent  an  unseemly  explosion.  Some  say 
Rug  Raffles  never  does  any  harm  with  his  mischief;  while 
others  as  decidedly  declare  that  such  doings  never  come  to 
good.  If  our  jester  really  occupies  the  innocent  state  of  be- 
tweenity  ascribed  to  him,  he  is  better  off  than  most  of  us.  I 
do  not  know  whether  the  sin  of  neglecting  to  do  good  finds  a 
fair  offset  in  the  virtue  of  neglecting  to  do  evil ;  but  I  fancy 
that  it  is  rather  difficult  to  find  a  nearer  balancing  of  accounts. 
Well  is  it  for  us  all  that  the  balancing  is  not  in  the  hands  of 
blundering  mortals,  who,  with  the  wise  solemnity  of  apes,  look 
us  in  the  face,  and  call  evil  good  and  good  evil.  I  think  that 
Rug  Raffles,  after  all,  is  not  a  man  to  be  despised,  though  his 
calling  be  not  of  the  highest  order. 

If  our  jester  would  but  confine  his  pranks  to  undignified 
people  and  to  six  days,  he  would  be  rather  more  popular  with 
the  respectables ;  but  propriety  (or  rather  tact)  is  one  of  the 
things  for  which  Rug  Raffles  lacks  the  genius.  So  he  some 
times  exposes  himself  to  the  severity  of  Deacon  Palmer's  men 
tal  love-pats,  which  he  receives  with  all  due  humility.  I  have 
in  my  memory  now  an  occasion  of  this  kind.  There  was  a 
time  when  some  of  us  wearied  of  our  good  old  parson  Brown, 
and  desired  something  more  modern  than  his  pious,  homely 
simplicity.  Parson  Brown  exercised  the  law  of  love  to  a  great 
extent ;  and  this  was  made  to  appear  a  crime  by  some  uneasy 
spirits,  who  thought  the  go-ahead  system  might  be  made  to 
operate  in  the  church  at  Alderbrook  as  in  the  church  and 
world  elsewhere.  So  our  wisely  gentle  pastor  was  pushed 
out  of  the  place  that  he  had  occupied  since  Alderbrook  was  a 
forest,  to  make  room  for  a  successor.  A  more  suitable  man, 
was  the  first  cry ;  but,  anything  for  a  change,  soon  became 
the  rule  of  action,  though  it  was  not  exactly  bodied  in  words ; 
so  in  reality  the  new  pastor  owed  his  entire  popularity  to 
being,  as  Deacon  Palmer  ventured  to  whisper,  "  a  new  broom." 
A  tall,  stiff,  formal  man,  with  a  loud,  monotonous  voice,  and  a 
manner  of  mingled  pomposity  and  severity,  came  among  us, 
to  edify  our  elders  with  abstruse  theories,  and  throw  a  shadow 


180  RUG   RAFFLES. 

on  the  hearts  of  us  little  children,  who  had  been  fed  by  lessons 
of  love  from  his  predecessor.  I  do  not  know  how  the  congre 
gation  at  large  looked  upon  the  new  pastor ;  but  the  children 
and  the  Rug  Raffleses  clung  with  all  their  hearts  to  the  old 
regime,  and  hated  most  cordially  "  sour  parson  Lawsley." 
Besides  the  Browns  were  almost  broken-hearted  at  the  indig 
nity  done  them ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  respectable  living  which 
they  had  lost,  thus  throwing  them  unexpectedly  upon  the 
slender  resources  of  uninitiated  money-makers.  Arid  who 
should  pity  them,  pray,  if  we  did  not  ?  And  how  should  we 
ever  expect  pardon  for  our  ingratitude,  if  we  could  find  it  in 
our  hearts  to  take  kindly  to  one  we  believed  their  enemy  ? 
We  could  not,  and  we  would  not ;  and  so  there  was  nothing 
left  us  but  to  wage  an  uncompromising  war  with  parson 
Lawsley.  To  be  sure  it  was  little  that  we  children  could  do 
but  get  tired  and  rustle  our  dresses  and  rattle  our  feet  about  in 
church ;  but  Rug  Raffles  was  a  man  of  means.  Many  were 
the  lettered  strips  of  board  which  came  to  label  the  parsonage 
in  the  night  time,  now  proclaiming  there  was  "  pig  iron" 
within,  and  now  "  white-washing,  done"  by  the  master  of  the 
mansion;  but  still  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lawsley  walked  with  the 
same  air  of  consequence  up  and  down  the  village  side-walk, 
till  Rug  Raffles  wished  himself  a  fly,  and  thought  very  highly 
of  nose-tickling.  Sometimes  he  managed  to  pin  strips  of  pa 
per  to  the  Rev.  gentleman's  coat,  with  rather  gay  scraps  of 
songs  upon  them ;  but  these  were  soon  removed,  and,  strange 
to  say,  without  an  abatement  of  dignity. 

Our  church  is  an  old-fashioned  one,  with  a  good  fat  weath 
ercock  (that  wheezes  when  the  wind  blows,  as  though  it  had 
the  asthma)  upon  the  belfry,  and  big,  plain  glass  windows, 
guiltless  of  shutters,  commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  village 
and  the  farm-houses  upon  its  skirts.  There  is  a  large  gallery 
extending  all  around  the  inside,  the  front  of  which  is  occupied 
by  a  very  fine-toned  organ  (purchased  in  honor  of  the  new 
pastor)  and  a  half  score  of  vocalists,  and  the  back,  just  behind 
the  pulpit,  by  the  "  boys  and  loafers."  Among  this  motley 
company  Rug  Raffles  reigns  king.  Not  that  he  exactly  classes 


RUG  RAFFLES.  181 

himself  with  either;  but  other  people  do  it  for  him.  The 
respectables  call  him  a  loafer,  and  the  boys  are  very  sure  he 
belongs  to  them.  One  morning,  parson  Lawsley  walked  into 
the  pulpit  as  usual,  read  a  portion  of  Scripture  and  then  a 
hymn,  and  sat  down  to  examine  his  notes.  Immediately 
above  him,  peering  over  the  gallery  with  a  most  waggish 
expression  of  countenance,  leaned  Rug  Raffles,  his  fat  arms 
folded  beneath  his  chin,  and  his  round  head  wagging  from 
side  to  side,  as  though  there  had  been  a  thought  in  it  disin 
clined  to  quiet.  There  was  a  striking  contrast  between  the 
long  chin,  hollow  temples,  cadaverous  cheeks,  and  severely 
serious  face  below,  and  the  puff-cheeked,  peaked-eyed,  mirth- 
lipped  visage  peering  down  upon  him  with  a  ludicrous  expres 
sion  of  mock  gravity  which  sent  a  smile  to  many  a  lip.  Soon 
the  hymn  was  ended,  and  the  preacher  rose  and  leaned  upon 
his  cushioned  desk  to  pray.  The  heads  of  the  more  reverent 
part  of  the  congregation  were  bowed,  while  Rug  Raffles 
entertained  the  rest.  He  pulled  a  line  from  his  pocket,  dis 
entangled  a  fish-hook  from  his  waistcoat,  and,  attaching  it  to 
the  line,  began  to  lower  it  towards  the  sofa  in  the  pulpit. 
People  stared  and  smiled,  for  it  was  scarce  to  be  expected  that 
Rug  Raffles  would  make  a  good  "  fisher  of  men."  But  this 
was  not  his  object.  After  he  had  angled  for  some  time  on 
the  sofa,  his  eye  suddenly  brightened,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
retreated  toward  his  ears,  and  with  a  nod  and  wave  of  triumph, 
which  very  nearly  convulsed  the  waiting  congregation  with 
laughter,  he  suddenly  brought  his  prize  to  light.  He  had 
managed  to  catch  his  hook  upon  a  thread,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Lawsley's  sermon  was  fast  approaching  the  gallery.  An 
involuntary  titter  caused  Deacon  Palmer  and  several  others  to 
raise  their  heads ;  but  Rug  Raffles  was  carefully  conning  his 
notes,  and  the  cause  of  the  untimely  mirth  was  undiscovera- 
ble.  The  prayer  ended,  another  hymn  was  sung,  and  the 
preacher  began  to  look  about  him  for  his  sermon.  He  thrust 
his  hands  first  into  one  pocket  and  then  in  the  other,  exam 
ined  the  contents  of  his  hat,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
Bible  with  irreverent  haste,  again  rummaged  his  pockets, 

VOL.  II.  16 


182  RUG    RAFFLES. 

looked  upon  the  floor,  and  then  paused  to  wipe  the  heavy 
perspiration  from  his  brow,  little  dreaming  that  his  lost  manu 
script  was  far  above  his  head.  But  if  he  had  turned  an  eye 
upward,  he  would  have  seen  nothing  but  Rug  Raffles  gazing 
down  inquiringly  upon  him,  as  though  wondering  if  the  im 
perturbable  parson  Lawsley  had  really  gone  mad.  As  for  the 
congregation,  some  were  enjoying  the  joke  without  compunc 
tion,  while  others,  according  to  their  different  dispositions,  had 
their  sympathies  enlisted  in  behalf  of  the  distressed  c,  ergy- 
man.  But  both  classes  found  it  difficult  to  restrain  their 
laughter.  At  last  the  preacher,  in  evident  despair,  opened  his 
Bible,  turned  over  the  leaves  handful  after  handful,  and, 
finally,  in  a  strange  state  of  nervous  excitement,  paused  as 
though  to  calm  his  thoughts.  Rug  Raffles  spread  the  sermon 
before  him,  donned  a  pair  of  horn-mounted  spectacles  with  the 
glasses  out,  and  began  to  look  important.  Parson  Lawsley 
announced  his  text,  and  Rug  Raffles  nodded  approbatively. 
The  preacher  commenced  his  exordium,  and  Rug  nodded 
again,  with  a  patronizing  air,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words, 
"  Good  boy  !  good  boy  !  he  has  his  lesson  nicely."  In  a  mo 
ment,  however,  the  preacher  began  to  extemporize,  and  Rug 
frowned  and  shook  his  head  violently.  It  was  too  much  for 
the  gravity  of  the  initiated  part  of  the  audience,  and  there  was 
a  half-smothered  burst  of  laughter,  which  startled  even  them 
selves,  and  put  parson  Lawsley  to  the  torture.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  speaking  extemporaneously,  and  he  fancied  he 
had  excited  the  laugh  by  his  awkwardness.  The  preacher 
went  on,  hesitatingly  and  tremblingly;  Rug  Raffles  frowned 
and  shook  his  head,  now  and  then  giving  a  quick  nod  of  appro 
bation;  and  the  audience  was  a  most  irreverently  smiling  one. 
At  last  the  strange  sermon  ended,  and  the  preacher  leaned 
over  his  desk  to  pray.  Immediately  Rug  Raffles  commenced 
operations  again.  He  drew  a  piece  of  twine  from  his  pocket, 
and  tying  it  loosely  around  the  pilfered  sermon,  began  lower 
ing  it  toward  the  sofa.  Down,  down,  slowly  and  carefully  it 
came  ;  then  there  was  a  sudden  jerk,  and  the  disengaged  line 
was  gathered  up  and  stowed  away  in  the  pocket  of  the  jester. 


RUG    RAFFLES.  183 

The  clergyman  ended  his  prayer,  and  turned  to  the  sofa. 
There  lay  his  lost  sermon,  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had 
placed  it.  He  started  backward  with  astonishment,  and,  un 
fortunately  being  nearer  the  side  of  the  pulpit  than  he  had 
imagined,  lost  his  balance  on  the  top  stair,  and  turned  a  som 
erset  to  the  bottom.  That  parson  Lawsley  had  surely  gone 
mad  was  the  general  impression,  and  the  congregation  scat 
tered,  leaving  Rug  Raffles  in  the  vestibule,  chuckling  over  the 
success  of  his  feat.  After  this  everybody  took  occasion  to  tack 
a  smile  to  the  name  of  parson  Lawsley  whenever  it  was  men 
tioned,  and  in  six  months'  time  our  dear  old  pastor  was  rein 
stalled  in  his  office  and  we  have  never  wearied  of  him  since. 
When  Deacon  Palmer  first  heard  the  truth  of  the  Lawsley 
story,  he  gave  Rug  Raffles  a  serious  reprimand  and — pre 
sented  him  with  a  new  coat !  This  was  an  era  in  Rug's  life. 
His  seedy,  thread-bare  habiliments  had  tried  severely  the 
affection  between  warp  and  woof;  and  though  he  was  never 
weary  of  caressing  the  friends  that  had  stood  by  him  through 
weal  and  woe,  he  was  in  truth  far  from  heart-broken  at  the 
thought  of  a  separation  from  them. 

But  the  deacon  had  not  thought  of  one  thing — that  the 
new  coat  would  need  shapeliness  —  and  Rug  was  quite  above 
carrying  about  with  him  such  tradesman -like  things  as  dol 
lars  and  cents.  Besides,  there  was  not  a  tailor  in  Alderbrook 
who  would  trust  him.  Nothing  daunted,  however,  our  hero 
shouldered  his  cloth  and  marched  to  every  door.  It  was  of 
no  use ;  every  shop  was  overstocked  with  work,  and  poor 
Rug  was  in  a  quandary.  But  at  last  a  bright  thought  came. 
He  would  n't  have  his  coat  made  by  a  clumsy  awkward  man, 
not  he.  Women's  delicate  fingers  were  far  nimbler,  and  there 
was  not  a  prettier  woman  within  fifty  miles  of  Alderbrook 
than  the  pale,  sweet  creature,  who  occupied  the  tiny  cottage 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near  the  toll-gate. 

Beautiful,  indeed,  was  young  Nelly  Tinsley  •-  more  beauti 
ful  now  than  when,  decked  in  the  gayest  finery  the  shops  of 
Alderbrook  afforded,  she  moved  among  us  without  a  shadow 
on  her  brow.  Now  sad  thoughts  had  drawn  lines  upon  her 


184  RUG   RAFFLES. 

face  painfully  intelligible ;  the  blue  veins  crossed  her  temples 
with  unusual  distinctness  ;  her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  night- 
watching,  and  her  small  hand  had  grown  thin  and  half-trans 
parent.  How  had  the  blithe,  ruddy  daughter  of  farmer  Ely 
changed ;  Nelly  Ely  had  been  a  bright,  fun-loving  girl,  who 
was  petted  and  indulged  until  she  grew  wilful  and  spurned 
every  rein  but  that  of  love.  She  yielded  to  her  father  because 
she  loved  him ;  but  when  a  stronger  love  came  to  her  heart 
she  forgot  her  obedience  to  the  first.  Young  Arthur  Tinsley 
smoothed  back  her  hair,  and  told  her  how  dear  was  every 
golden  thread  to  him ;  pressed  her  pretty  hand  between  his 
own ;  looked  into  her  eyes  until  they  grew  dreamy  as  his ; 
kissed  the  smile  from  her  bright  lip ;  and  finally  unlocked  a 
fountain  of  delicious  tears  which  had  till  now  slumbered  deep 
down  in  her  nature.  Who  would  not  grow  familiar  with  tears 
must  never  love ;  who  would  not  love  must  barter  all  the 
wealth  of  the  measureless  depths  of  the  human  heart  for  the 
bubble  which  dances  on  its  surface.  The  bubble  went  from 
Nelly's  heart,  the  glitter  from  her  lip ;  and  up,  gushing  from 
the  rich  depths  below,  came  a  fountain  never  more  to  be  sealed, 
not  even  in  eternity.  Love  made  the  spirit  of  Nelly  Ely 
meek,  but  it  made  it  strong  too.  So  when  the  stubborn  old 
farmer  told  her  that  if  she  became  the  wife  of  the  beggarly 
artist,  Tinsley,  his  door  should  be  forever  closed  against  her, 
she  turned,  and,  with  a  touching,  beautiful  faith,  added  her 
hand  to  her  heart's  gift.  What  a  holy  thing  is  that  love 
which,  closing  the  eyes  upon  a  brilliant  future,  turns  to  low 
liness  and  clouds,  and  whispers  to  the  beloved  one  "  only  thee 
and  heaven ! "  I  know  there  are  men  of  cold  theories  who 
would  prove  to  me  that  Nelly  Ely  acted  far  from  right,  and  I 
should  be  speechless  before  them ;  but  when  they  are  away 
with  their  arguments  I  cannot  remember  what  they  have  said ; 
and  so  I  find  myself  pronouncing  the  love  of  our  meek-eyed, 
white-browed  neighbor,  a  beautiful  and  a  holy  thing. 

Farmer  Ely  had  no  other  child,  and  so,  after  Nelly's  mar 
riage,  the  great  farm-house  became  a  desolate  place,  and  he 
so  surly  and  ill-natured  that  children  ran  and  hid  themselves 


RUG    RAFFLES.  185 

at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  At  first  Nelly  Tinsley  was  very 
proud  of  her  husband,  for  she  knew  well  how  to  appreciate 
his  genius ;  and  she  was  delighted  to  find  that  she  could  aid 
in  its  development  by  soothing  and  encouragement.  But  soon 
pride  began  to  lose  itself  in  anxiety.  Trials  were  in  the  way, 
and  he  grew  irritable ;  trials  increased,  and  he  bent  beneath 
them ;  still  others  came,  and  health  and  spirits  yielded.  A 
strong  man  could  scarce  have  wrestled  with  such  a  fortune ; 
but  Arthur  Tinsley  had  the  helpless  simplicity  of  a  child  and 
the  sensitiveness  of  a  woman.  For  a  while  poor  Nelly  strug 
gled  on  cheerfully  and  uncomplainingly ;  and  then,  as  un 
complainingly,  but  with  a  heart-ache  written  in  every  line  of 
her  face,  she  came  with  her  sick  husband  and  dying  child 
back  to  Alderbrook.  Oh,  how  changed  was  that  bright  young 
face  with  the  merry  heart-glow  lighting  up  either  cheek  ! 
Could  that  pale,  fragile  creature  be  Nelly  Ely  ?  The  rugged 
old  farmer  turned  from  her  despairing  cry,  and  shut  the  door 
against  her  with  an  oath ;  and  for  an  hour  did  poor  Nelly  lie, 
like  one  dead,  at  the  roots  of  the  white  rose-bushes  among 
which  she  had  spent  her  bird-like  hours  before  she  knew  sor 
row.  At  last  she  arose  and  reeled  back  to  the  village  ;  not 
quite  broken-hearted,  for  her  husband  was  yet  left  to  her ;  and 
though  he  was  now  but  the  wreck  of  the  impassioned,  enthu 
siastic,  heartful  Arthur  Tinsley,  that  shattered  wreck  was  far 
dearer  to  her  than  the  noble,  scatheless  structure.  Her  heart 
had  grown  to  him  in  their  humiliation.  Was  she  not  his 
world  as  he  was  hers  ?  Immeasurably  blest  was  young  Nelly 
Tinsley  even  in  her  misery;  and  as  she  knelt  by  the  sick 
couch  of  her  husband  that  night,  and  soothed  his  aching  head, 
and  listened  to  his  low  tones,  sometimes  querulous,  sometimes 
melting  with  tenderness,  there  was  not  one  act  of  her  life 
toward  him  she  would  have  recalled.  Some  people  made 
mention  of  the  fact  that  there  had  been  no  parental  blessing 
on  the  union,  and  shook  their  heads,  remarking  that  "  such 
things  were  always  punished  sooner  or  later ;"  but  Nelly 
would  have  stared  at  them  in  bewilderment.  Surely  there 
was  nothing  like  punishment  in  her  lot.  She  had  certainly 

VOL.   II.  16* 


186  RUG   RAFFLES. 

suffered  very  deeply,  but  it  was  with  him  ;  and  could  all  her 
father's  lands  buy  a  single  hour  of  that  time  made  invaluable 
by  love  ?  Why,  there  was  a  blessedness  in  her  very  suffer 
ings,  consecrated  as  they  were  to  a  holy  affection ;  and  while 
she  was  wearing  out  life  in  poverty  and  lowliness,  she  would 
not  have  exchanged  for  a  diadem  her  sacred  wealth  of  heart. 
Where  the  shadows  rest  the  violets  spring  freshest  and  sweet 
est.  If  the  sunlight  must  needs  kiss  the  perfume  from  my 
violets,  Heaven  keep  me  ever  in  the  shadow.  We  are  way 
ward  children,  and  do  not  always  know  what  is  good  for  us ; 
but  we  have  a  Father  above,  who,  when  he  takes  from  us  the 
dross  and  tinsel,  blesses  us  with  such  things  as  the  angels 
have.  When  our  first  mother  went  out  of  Eden  in  sorrow, 
she  carried  an  Eden  in  her  heart ;  there  are  some  who  live  in 
an  Eden  now,  but  their  hearts  are  barren. 

Nelly  Tinsley  found  a  home  with  an  old  woman,  to  whom 
she  had  been  kind  in  better  days  ;  and  the  villagers  buried  her 
child  ;  and  then  she  was  comparatively  forgotten.  Her  hus 
band  sometimes  rose  from  his  couch  long  enough  to  toy  a  little 
with  his  pencil,  but  the  most  trifling  efforts  were  usually  repaid 
by  long,  dreary  days  of  illness ;  then  he  would  become  peevish, 
talk  of  starving  and  of  doctor's  bills,  beg  them  to  let  him  die, 
for  he  was  all  that  kept  Nelly  from  wealth  and  happiness,  and 
bitterly  bewail  his  folly  in  ever  having  deprived  her  of  a 
home.  Nelly  answered  cheeringly  every  murmur  but  the 
last ;  but  that  scarce  sincere  regret  was  always  dissipated  by 
her  tears.  Then  came  the  words  of  tenderness,  which  turned 
Nelly's  sad  heart  into  a  habitation  of  subdued,  sorrow-shaded 
bliss.  The  old  woman  with  whom  Nelly  had  found  a  home, 
supported  herself  by  her  needle,  and  so  the  young  wife  was 
soon  initiated  into  its  more  substantial  mysteries. 

Rug  Raffles  had  no  hope  of  inducing  dame  Gaskill  to  make 
his  coat,  for  he  was  quite  aware  that  his  credit  was  not  very 
high  with  her  ;  but  Nelly  Tinsley  probably  had  many  dreary, 
unoccupied  hours;  and  he  argued,  as  he  wended  his  way  to 
her  humble  door,  that  he  should  be  doing  her  a  great  favor 
by  furnishing  her  with  employment. 


RUG    RAFFLES.  187 

"Nothing  like  industry  to  keep  trouble  away — so  I've 
heard  say;"  soliloquized  Rug  Raffles,  as  he  trundled  his  bur 
ly  corpus  over  the  little  strip  of  tan-bark  at  the  road  side. 
"  Industry  !  ha  !  ha  !  That 's  why  I  don't  have  trouble,  I  sup 
pose.  Ha !  ha  !  A  little  job  for  the  squire  to-night,  just  to 
keep  him  from  sublimating  on  the  top  of  his  big  stilts  —  um  ! 
only  a  trifle ;"  and  Rug  Raffles  winked  and  nodded,  and 
looked  about  him  as  though  he  had  been  making  confidants 
of  the  fence  and  bushes.  "Well,  I  am  a  philanthropist; 
there  's  no  disputing  that.  Parson  Brown  is  a  pretty  good — 
a  pretty  good  man — but  he  wouldn't  crawl  out  of  his  bed  of 
a  dark  night  to  benefit  the  public  in  the  way  I  do,  I  reckon. 
Yes,  the  public — that's  the  word — I'm  a  PUBLIC  BENEFAC 
TOR,  ha  !  ha  !  They  say  a  laugh  is  the  best  medicine.  I  make 
everybody  laugh,  and  so  I  'm  the  biggest  doctor  in  Alder- 
brook.  So,  so  —  this  is  the  house.  Not  quite  a  palace,  for 
sure.  Wonder  if  Miss  Nelly  Ely  don't  want  to  get  back  into 
the  old  farm-house  —  seems  to  me  that  was  rather  more  com 
fortable." 

When  Rug  Raffles  made  known  his  errand,  he  found,  as  he 
had  anticipated,  dame  Gaskill  quite  overstocked  with  work. 

"  Can't  make  it,  dame  ? " 

"  No ;  my  customers  —  " 

"  Rayther  queer ! "  and  Rug  regarded  the  empty  table  and 
work-shelf,  with  an  expression  peculiarly  quizzical. 

"  But  my  customers  —  " 

"  Supposing  I  should  wait  a  week  or  two  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  would  make  no  difference ;  I  have  pile  on  pile  of 
work;  and  my  customers  —  " 

•'  Well,  now,  Dame  Gaskill,  could  you  find  time  to  make 
it  next  year  ?  "  interrupted  Rug,  fixing  his  peaked  eyes  on 
her  with  a  kind  of  mesmeric  stare,  and  puffing  out  his  full 
cheeks ;"  I  like  your  work  amazingly,  dame,  and  I  am  willing 
to  be  accommodating,  I  am." 

"  I  think  I  can  make  it."  The  words  came  in  soft,  tremu 
lous  tones,  from  the  farther  end  of  the  long  narrow  room, 
which  Rug  immediately  whispered  himself  was  occupied  by 


188  RUG    RAFFLES. 

sweet  Nelly  Bly.  The  speaker  was  leaning  over  a  couch, 
with  one  thin  hand  resting  caressingly  on  a  brow  even 
thinner  and  paler  than  itself;  and,  as  she  turned  her  face  to 
speak,  Rug,  careless  as  he  was,  discerned  the  traces  of  tears 
on  her  now  flushed  cheek,  and  knew  by  her  eager  tones  that 
his  favor  was  duly  esteemed. 

"  You ! "  exclaimed  dame  Gaskill.  "  Why,  you  never 
made  a  coat  in  your  life  !  Think  of  stitching  the  collar,  and 
working  the  button-holes,  and  pressing  it  off,  and  all  that. 
No,  no  !  You  can't  make  it." 

"  If — if  you  would  show  me,"  began  Nelly,  hesitatingly, 
"  if  you  would  show  me,  perhaps  —  " 

"  But  I  can't  show  you — I  shall  have  no  time  for  showing 
you." 

"  I  should  like  to  do  it,  indeed ! "  burst  from  the  lips  of  the 
poor  wife,  as  she  clasped  her  pale  hands  helplessly  over  her 
face,  and  the  tears  gushed  like  a  shower  of  precious  gems  — 
less  precious  they  than  those  pure  heart-jewels!  —  from  be 
tween  her  attenuated  fingers. 

"And  you  shall  do  it!"  exclaimed  Rug,  setting  down  his 
foot  emphatically. 

A  look  of  gratitude  and  a  sob  was  the  answer. 

"  Stitching  the  collar,  — "  began  the  unrelenting  dame. 

"  The  collar  need  n't  be  stitched.  There  is  no  use  in 
spoiling  the  young  -woman's  eyes  stitching  collars.  Who 
ever  looks  at  my  collar,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  And  the  button-holes,  — "  continued  the  pertinacious 
dame. 

Don't  want  button-holes — won't  have  button-holes — • 
button-holes  always  break  out  and  make  a  great  bother. 
Button-holes  are  among  the  ornamentals,  and  I  'm  principled 
against  ornamentals." 

"  Lud-a-mercy,  Mr.  Raffles  !" 

"  It 's  no  use,  dame.  Right  about  face !  hands  and  eyes 
down  !  The  young  woman  shall  do  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Raffles — " 

1 1  tell  ye  she  shall  do  it ! " 


RUG   RAFFLES.  189 

"  It  will  never  do  to  give  it  up  so,"  thought  Dame  Gaskill ; 
though,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  had  been  watching  in  great  anx 
iety  all  the  morning  for  a  customer ;  and  so  she  rose  and 
joined  Nelly  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Rug  did  not  hear 
the  first  remarks  ;  but,  after  a  few  moments,  entreatingly  and 
deprecatingly  came  the  words,  "  Oh,  it  is  necessary — it  25 
and  he  could  n't  have  the  heart  to  keep  back  the  money  from 
me." 

"  Certainly  not  if  he  had  it ;  but  Rug  Raffles  has  n't 
known  the  color  of  a  coin  this  many  a  day,  I  '11  warrant  me.'' 

"  It  is  a  solemn  fact,  dame,"  whispered  Rug  to  himself,  at 
the  same  time  fumbling  in  his  empty  pockets. 

"  He  will  get  the  money,  I  am  sure  he  will ;  he  looks 
good-natured,  and  I  will  trust  him ;  I  am  certain  he  will 
get  it." 

"  If  he  only  could,  mistress  pretty-lips,"  was  the  aside  of 
Rug.  "  but  where  in  the  name  of  old  shoes  and  ragged  elbows, 
is  it  to  come  from  ?  That's  what  I  should  just  like  to  know." 

"  You  will  lose  it,"  pursued  the  dame. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  and  he  so  ill,  and  so  worried  when  I 
take  the  needle." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity  you  should  worry  him." 

"  Oh,  I  will  not.  I  will  do  it  while  he  sleeps.  He  al 
ways  has  a  long  sleep  after  midnight." 

"  And  kill  yourself  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  I  am  so  well  and  strong  ! " 

The  dame  sighed;  and  Rug  drew  the  cuff  of  his  coat 
across  his  eyes — probably  to  shade  them  from  the  sunlight. 

"  But  you  do  not  need  this  money  just  now;  you  paid  the 
doctor's  bill  yesterday,  and  there  is  plenty  of  arrow-root  left 
for  these  two  or  three  days  yet ;  of  course  there  is  no  danger 
that  you  and  I  will  starve.  Just  wait  patiently  and  some  job 
will  come  worth  having  before  you  need  the  money." 

Nelly  looked  around  to  assure  herself  that  the  invalid 
slept,  and  then  answered  softly,  "  He  asked  me  for  paints  this 
morning,  and  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  deny  him.  I  never  have 
done  that  before.  Medicine  may  drive  the  pain  away,  but  he 


190  RUG   RAFFLES. 

will  go  wild  if  poverty  keep  him  from  the  exercise  of  his  art 
The  paints  are  worth  more  to  him  than  medicines." 

"  Why,  he  couldn't  use  them,  if — " 

"  No  matter  for  that,  he  must  have  them,  if  I  go  out  into 
the  streets  and  beg." 

"  Nonsense,  child  !  I  have  no  patience  with  you.  You 
will  kill  yourself  to  indulge  his  whims.  You  got  this  terri 
ble  cough  sitting  up  in  the  cold  room  to  earn  the  money  for 
that  canvass  ;  and  then  the  ungrateful  fellow  pushed  his  foot 
through  it  just  because  some  of  his  figurations  didn't  suit 
him.  There,  don't  cry,  child  —  don't  cry  !  I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  Sick  folks  must  be  indulged,  I  suppose, 
and  Mr.  Tinsely  is  n't  always  so ;  but  I  must  say  you  are  a 
nice  creature  to  take  his  high-handed  doings  so  sweetly, 
when  he  is  put  out.  And  I  must  say  it  is  rather  hard  for 
you  to  kill  yourself 'for  a  whimsey." 

Rug  Raffles  had  found  his  chair  rather  uncomfortable  dur 
ing  the  conference  of  the  two  women,  and  particularly  since 
in  their  earnestness  they  had  allowed  their  voices  to  rise  to  a 
hearing  pitch.  He  put  the  right  leg  over  the  left  knee,  then 
the  left  leg  over  the  right  knee,  trotted  his  foot,  drummed 
with  his  hands  on  the  crown  of  his  hat,  hitched,  fidgetted, 
whistled,  and  finally,  in  the  midst  of  a  pathetic  remonstrance 
from  Nelly,  sprang  to  his  feet  outright. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  young  woman  —  ahem  !  young  woman 
—  mistress  pretty-speech  —  I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  that  coat. 
I  hate  new  coats;  they  always  pinch  and  set  a  fellow  up, 
like  a  pound  of  starch,  and — I  should  feel  like  a  gentleman 
in  a  new  coat,  and  I  object  to  being  a  gentleman  ;  I  could  n't 
condescend." 

By  the  time  Rug  had  delivered  himself  of  his  speech  he 
was  at  the  door. 

"  But  the  cloth,  Mr.  Raffles  !  Don't  go  away  without  the 
cloth,"  exclaimed  dame  Gaskill,  following  her  queer  customer 
with  the  package. 

"  Don't  bother  me  with  the  cloth,  dame.  D'ye  think  I  'm 
an  errand  boy  to  be  running  about  the  streets  with  bundles  ? 
Out  of  my  way,  and  take  the  cloth  back  into  the  house  !  But 


RUG   RAFFLES.  191 

look'ee,  old  woman,  some  folks  say  I  'm  the  devil,  so  look 
out  how  you  put  your  fingers  inside  that  bundle.  It 's  — 
it 's,"  and  by  this  time  Rug  Raffles  was  clambering  up  the 
hill,  very  nearly  breathless,  "  it 's  for  Nelly  Ely  to  buy  paints 
with." 

"  A  new  coat !  "  soliloquized  Rug,  as  he  seated  himself  on 
the  front  steps  of  the  nearest  grocery :  "  a  new  coat  must  be 
a  terrible  bore.  I  should  n't  sit  down  so  easy-like  in  it  as  I 
do  in  you,  old  friend;"  and  he  hugged  his  seedy  satinet  as  in 
all  probability  he  would  have  hugged  a  sweet-heart.  "  How 
strangely  my  elbows  would  feel  in  a  new  coat,  poor  things' 
as  fixed -up  as  I  used  to  feel  when  grandmamma  took  me 
a-visiting;  and  my  shoulders,  too  —  they  are  free-born  citizens 
and  never  could  submit  to  being  put  in  the  stocks,  not  they. 
But  what  a  villain  old  Ely  must  be  !  The  girl  would  actu 
ally  have  got  the  blind  side  of  me,  if  I  would  have  let  her 
— but  then  it  is  n't  in  the  nature  of  us  laughing  philosophers 
to  mind  much  about  the  weepers.  Poor  thing  !  how  pitifully 
she  talks  of  that  rascally  husband  of  hers ;  and  he  leads  her  a 
dog's  life,  I  've  no  doubt.  It 's  a  fancy  some  husbands  have 
to  beat  and  bruise  about,  as  though  there  was  nobody  in  the 
big  world  but  themselves ;  and  I  'm  glad  I  've  kept  clear  of 
'em.  I  'm  glad,  I  mean,  that  I  don't  happen  to  have  a  wife 
to  tyrannize  over ;  for  I  should  be  a  shocking  bad  fellow  in 
that  case,  I  know  I  should.  Wouldn't  I  flourish  my  shil- 
lelah,  though?  Hurrah!" 

After  making  a  grand  flourish,  and  explaining  to  the  in 
quisitive  bystanders  that  he  was  only  cudgelling  Mrs.  Rug- 
gles  Raffles  that  was  to  be,  our  hero  again  seated  himself  on 
the  steps  and  immediately  fell  into  a  state  of  profound  medi 
tation.  Rug  was  apt  to  be  contemplative  when  he  was  not 
uproariously  social ;  and,  as  the  result  of  his  ponderings  was 
sure  to  follow  close  on  the  heels  of  their  indulgence,  no  one 
ever  offered  even  a  penny  for  his  thoughts.  When  the  half 
hour  was  passed,  Rug  arose  and  shook  himself  like  Samson. 
Probably  he  was  satisfied  that  his  strength  was  with  him ;  for 
immediately  his  face  put  on  all  its  waggery  ;  his  half-shut 


192  RUG   RAFFLES. 

pointed  eyes  looked  as  though  made  to  pilfer  sermons;  fcs 
mouth,  which  grew  astonishingly  wide,  held  a  merry  thought 
in  each  corner  ;  even  his  large  nose  had  an  expression  about 
it  which  added  not  a  little  to  the  comic  drollery  of  his  phiz ; 
and  he  alternately  rubbed  his  hands  and  hugged  himself  with 
infinite  satisfaction.  As  soon  as  his  first  self-congratulations 
were  over,  he  began  trundling  himself  along  the  street,  his 
heavy  locomotives  seeming  to  find  the  utmost  difficulty  in 
keeping  pace  with  him. 

Farmer  Ely  had  been  more  gruff  since  the  return  of  his 
daughter  than  ever.  He  was  obliged  to  employ  men-ser 
vants,  (or  rather  gentleman  helps,)  within  doors,  for  no 
woman  would  stay  in  his  kitchen ;  and  both  house  and  field 
were  often  witnesses  of  desperate  quarrels  between  employer 
and  the  employed.  On  this  day  he  was  going  his  usual 
rounds  among  his  workmen,  when,  as  he  chanced  to  draw 
near  a  forest,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  hearing  his  own 
name. 

"  I  say,  uncle,  I  should  like  to  own  this  farm  of  old  Ely's." 

"  Yes,  it  is  A  fine  farm ;  but  little  good  does  it  bring  to  the 
owner.  He  is  the  most  miserable  old  wasp  in  existence  ;  for, 
fool-like,  he  thought  to  sting  his  daughter,  but  instead  of  that 
he  stung  himself,  and  has  been  smarting  ever  since." 

"  But  he  has  a  grand  farm  for  all  that." 

"Yes,  a  grand  farm;  but  what  good  will  it  do  him? 
They'll  shovel  his  old  bones  into  the  grave  one  of  these 
days,  and  his  hard  earnings  will  go  to  those  who  will  be  glad 
the  old  pest  is  out  of  the  way." 

"  Probably  his  pauper  daughter  will  come  in  for  a  share 
then." 

The  listener  ground  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fist.  Per 
haps  he  was  enraged  at  the  thought  of  his  money  going  to 
poor  Nelly.  Perhaps  the  idea  of  his  daughter's  being  a  pau 
per  was  new  to  him. 

"  Not  she,"  returned  the  other  voice  ;  "  she  's  pretty  much 
done  with  money  and  pauperism  both,  I  reckon ;  and  he  '11 
soon  have  her  ghost  to  worry  him  out  of  the  world,  I  can  tell 


RUG    RAFFLES.  193 

you.  She  won't  come  near  him  now  though  she  's  starving, 
poor  thing!  but  bones  which  have  been  in  the  grave  are  not 
so  nice  about  such  matters.  She  will  haunt  the  old  knave, 
night  and  day,  I  '11  warrant  me." 

"  What  a  pity  the  miserable  old  Jew  has  n't  a  grandchild, 
since  he  's  resolved  to  disinherit  his  daughter." 

"  Ay,  he  might  have  had.  A  finer  boy  never  gladdened 
mother's  heart  than  little  Harry." 

Farmer  Ely  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  his  face  changed  to  an 
ashen  hue. 

"  It  was  a  strange  thing  enough  for  her  to  name  him  after 
one  who  had  treated  her  so  shamefully ;  but  women  will  have 
queer  notions,  and  he  was  the  very  picture  of  his  rascally 
grandfather.  That  was  enough  to  make  Nelly  hate  him ; 
but  instead  of  that,  she  only  loved  him  the  more.  Wolves 
and  tigers  take  care  of  their  little  ones,  but  old  Bly  left  his  to 
starve.  It  is  well  though  that  the  baby  died ;  for  the  sooner 
such  a  race  becomes  extinct  the  better." 

"  And  do  you  think  Tinsley  is  really  dying?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  Three  murders  are  a  pretty  heavy  load 
for  one  man's  conscience." 

Farmer  Bly  unconsciously  uttered  a  groan ;  but  the  con 
versationists,  who  seemed  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  the  sound, 
continued : 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  actually  refused  his  grandson  a 
shroud." 

"  It  is  true ;  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  that  very  deed  con 
demned  his  own  bones  to  rot  above  ground.  Such  things  do 
happen  sometimes." 

"  Think  of  pretty  Nelly  Ely's  being  a  beggar  in  Alder- 
brook  !  There  was  a  time  when  the  Blys  carried  their  heads 
as  high  as  the  highest ;  but  now  they  are  quite  down  in  the 
mouth.  Only  two  left;  the  one  disgraced  in  everybody's 
eyes  by  his  unnatural  hard-heartedness,  and  the  other  a  pau 
per  !  Well,  it  is  one  comfort  to  us  poor  fellows  to  know  that 
we  all  come  out  about  the  same  in  the  end.  Any  way,  I 
would  rather  be  in  my  grave  than  old  Ely's." 

VOL.  n.  17 


194  RUG    RAFFLES. 

"  Old  Antoine's  would  be  a  palace  to  that,  I  fancy." 

"  Does  Mistress  Nelly  ever  speak  of  her  father  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  when  she  hears  him  called  a  villain,  as  everybody 
does  call  him,  she  takes  on  dreadfully,  and  says  he  was  a  good 
father  to  her  once,  and  she  will  love  him  now  for  what  he  has 
been.  Women  are  always  fools  about  these  matters,  you 
know." 

"  And  Tinsley  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  must  indulge  his  pretty  wife,  of  course,  and  would 
swear  that  the  old  rascal  was  an  angel  if  it  would  only  win  a 
smile  from  her.  They  say  he  even  painted  a  portrait  of  him, 
from  memory ;  and,  savage  as  the  old  rebel  is,  made  him  look 
quite  amiable.  They  sold  everything  else  when  they  were 
starving,  but  they  would  n't  part  with  that." 

A  loud  sob  burst  from  the  overcharged  bosom  of  farmer 
Ely  ;  he  leaned  for  a  moment  against  a  tree,  and  then  hurried 
forward  with  almost  the  bound  of  a  boy. 

"  He,  he  !  ha,  ha,  ha ! "  The  laugh  was  smothered,  but  it 
evidently  came  from  a  very  merry  heart.  And  oh,  what  a 
face  was  that  peering  above  the  clump  of  dog-wood  bushes ! 
Rug  Raffles  had  never  looked  so  entirely  convulsed  with  mirth 
before. 

"  I  've  done  him !  I  've  done  him !  The  old  fox  is  fast  in 
the  trap  !  Hurra !  hurra !  Hip,  hip,  hip,  hurra  !  The  birds 
don't  know  anything  or  they  'd  split  their  throats  a-hurraing 
and  a-laughing.  A'n't  I  a  public  benefactor  ?  —  no ;  this  time 
I  'm  a  private  one ;  and  should  n't  have  let  the  right  hand 
know  what  the  left  one  did,  only  that  they  had  to  talk  to  each 
other.  I  should  like  to  know  who  could  do  the  thing  up 
neater.  Pretty  well  for  you,  Rug  Raffles.  Come  to  think 
Miss  Tinsley,  I  reckon  I  '11  just  take  back  that  coat.  You 
don't  seem  to  need  it  at  all  just  now.  Ha,  ha !  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
I  would  n't  have  believed  that  he  vould  nibble  the  bait  so 
soon,  the  old  fox ;  though  I  gave  him  two  or  three  pretty 
tough  morsels,  to  be  sure.  He  couldn't  get  round  that  com 
ing  down  of  the  family;  it  hurt  his  feelings.  Ah,  that's  the 
dagger  that  I  stabbed  him  with.  That  'went  to  the  witals.' 


RUG    RAFFLES.  195 

as  the  saying  is.  And  then  I  come  it  over  him  with  the  soft. 
Lucky  enough  that  I  heard  about  that  picture ;  that  was  what 
did  him  at  last — hurra!  Hurra  for  fun  and  Rug  Raffles! 
I  '11  trick  dame  Gaskill  into  making  the  coat,  I  will.  As 
though  a  man  was  any  the  worse  for  an  empty  pocket !  She 
to  say  it  too,  the  old  owl !  and  she  has  n't  a  red  cent  to  her 
name  !  I  '11  trick  her  ! "  And  down  sat  generous  Rug  Raffles 
to  devote  an  hour  of  his  precious  time  to  the  prudent  Mrs. 
Gaskill. 

It  was  a  bright  afternoon ;  and  Arthur  Tinsley  sat  up  in 
his  bed,  leaning  against  an  inverted  chair.  His  wife,  as  ever, 
was  by  his  side,  and  bending  over  him  with  mingled  anxiety 
and  tenderness. 

"  I  should  like  some  paints,  Nelly,  if  you  can  get  them,"  he 
said  in  an  earnest  tone. 

"  I  will  try,  dear ;  but  you  must  n't  worry  if  I  am  two  or 
three  days  about  it.  This  hand  is  not  very  strong,  and  it  must 
not  busy  itself  too  soon.  When  you  are  well  again,  I  have 
a  grand  scheme  for  you." 

The  invalid  smiled  faintly,  and  then,  in  a  tone  of  touching 
tenderness,  answered,  "  I  shall  never  be  well  till  the  sod  is 
over  my  bosom,  Nelly.  I  see  how  all  this  is  to  end ;  I  am 
growing  weaker  and  weaker  every  day;  but  there  is  one  thing 
that  I  must  do — I  cannot  die  till  it  is  done.  There  is  but 
one  face  for  me  in  the  wide  universe  —  if  the  angels  in  heaven 
do  not  have  it,  I  cannot  love  them.  I  must  paint  your  face 
and  take  it  into  the  grave  with  me." 

"  You  will  not  die,  Arthur,  you  cannot  die !  The  doctor 
said  you  would  get  well  if  I  could  only  make  you  happy. 
Won't  you  be  happy  with  me,  Arthur?" 

"  We  will  both  be  happy  when  we  have  gone  home  to 
heaven,  Nelly ;  but  here,  never.  Nothing  has  ever  prospered 
with  us  since  the  day  of  our  marriage." 

"  We  have  loved  each  other." 

"  Ay,  overwhelmingly.  It  has  been  thy  curse,  my  Nelly; 
and  when  I  am  gone — " 

A  tremendous  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  remainder  of  the 


196  RUG   RAFFLES. 

sentence  hung  suspended  on  the  invalid's  tongue,  while  dame 
Gaskiil's  head  bobbed  out  of  the  window,  and  was  as  quickly 
withdrawn. 

"  Old  farmer  Ely,  as  I  live  !  Don't  be  in  a  flurry,  children ! 
Oh !  oh !  I  'm  a  most  scared  out  of  my  senses.  Don't  you 
open  the  door,  Nelly;  I  'm  afraid  he  has  come  for  no  good  — 
wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,  child ;  I  'd  better  open  it  myself.  Lud- 
a-marcy  !  she  has  no  fear  of  anything." 

Nelly  drew  the  latch-string  tremblingly ;  her  cheek  was 
flushed,  but  her  head  erect.  The  first  glance  was  enough, 
for  the  rough,  manly  face  was  full  of  eloquence. 

"My  father!" 

The  old  man's  arms  were  outspread;  and  the  trembling 
daughter  nestled  in  them  like  a  wearied  dove. 

"The  old  house  is  desolate,  Nelly;  I  cannot  live  there 
alone  any  longer,  and  you  must  come  back  to  me.  What, 
tears!  you  didn't  cry,  Nelly,  when  I  shut  the  door  in  your 
face  to  drown  what  you  were  saying  of  your  dead  baby.  But 
I  didn't  shut  out  your  voice,  I  heard  it  day  and  night  —  day 
and  night,  in  the  house  and  in  the  field — I  couldn't  get  rid 
of  it  anywhere.  Don't  cry  any  more,  Nelly — don't  cry! 
your  tears  make  my  heart  ache.  If  you  had  told  me  that  the 
boy's  name  was  Harry — only  told  me,  I  might — but  I  don't 
know,  I  'm  an  old  tiger.  Will  you  come  and  live  with  me, 
Nelly?" 

The  daughter  raised  her  flushed  face  from  the  pillowing 
bosom  and  pointed  to  the  bed. 

"  Yes,  darling ;  bring  him  with  you ;  the  house  is  big 
enough  for  all  of  us.  He  stole  my  only  child,  but — well,  it 
is  natural — it  is  natural !  They  say  he  is  dying,  too,  but  we 
will  not  let  him.  Money  gives  skill  to  the  doctors ;  and  you 
shall  both  be  well  and  happy.  These  pretty  cheeks  of  yours 
must  get  some  fulness  and  color.  Nelly  Ely  can't  be  an 
invalid,  nor — nor  —  curses  on  those  who  have  said  it — a 
pauper !  And  now,  Nelly,  darling,  bring  me  the  picture  that 
poor  Arthur  Tinsley  painted,  and  you  would  n't  part  with 
when  you  were  starving.  Ah,  you  did  love  your  old  father 


RUG    RAFFLES.  197 

after  all,  though  you  left  him  for  a  stranger !  That  almost 
broke  my  heart,  and  it  was  the  heart-break  which  made  a  sav 
age  of  me ;  but — but  you  were  right,  and  Arthur  Tinsley  is 
a  noble  fellow.  He  loved  you  when  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
cast  you  off." 

"  He,  he  !  ha,  ha,  ha ! "  No  one  in  dame  Gaskill's  cottage 
heard  the  laugh,  or  saw  the  shaggy  round  head  peering  through 
the  open  window,  with  the  eyes  set  corner-wise,  and  the  lips 
drawn  up,  displaying  an  immense  gash  recognizable  by  all 
who  had  ever  seen  it,  as  the  mouth  of  Rug  Raffles. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Hurra  !  hurra  for  fun  and  Rug  Raffles  ! 
Taste  again,  old  fox !  Two  such  strawberries  don't  grow  on 
every  stem.  Ha,  ha !  Mistress  pretty-lips,  I  reckon  I  '11  just 
take  that  coat." 

VOL.  II.  17* 


198 


THE  FEENCH  EMIGEANTS. 

"  SEE,  mother,  see !  we  are  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
every  moment.  It  is  a  beautiful  town — so  bright  and  cheer 
ful  !  and  everything  looks  so  fresh  about  it !  Oh !  it  does 
one's  heart  good  to  see  the  land  again.  And  that  is  Fort 
James,  perched  on  that  high  point,  and  looking  down  as 
though  it  were  the  guardian  of  the  waters.  We  shall  be  very 
happy  here,  in  this  charming  home !  —  You  look  sad,  mother." 

So  spake  a  slight,  dark-haired  stripling,  with  the  warm  hue 
of  a  southern  sun  upon  his  cheek ;  as,  leaning  over  the  ves 
sel's  side,  while  she  rode  proudly  into  the  harbor  of  New 
York,  he  fixed  his  glowing  eye  upon  the  long  hoped-for  asy 
lum  of  the  new  world.  The  young  queen  of  western  com 
merce  was  indeed  bright  that  morning ;  with  the  pretty  fort 
for  a  crown,  and  skirts  sweeping  back  into  the  green  shadow, 
all  jewelled  over  with  happy  hearth-stones.  Indeed,  never 
was  town  more  finely  spread  out  for  a  sea-view ;  and  the  yel 
low  Holland  brick,  of  which  many  of  the  buildings  were  con 
structed,  and  the  mingled  red  and  black  tiles  which  covered  the 
roofs  of  more,  with  the  glow  of  the  sunlight  upon  them,  made 
it  as  gay  as  a  sachem's  bride.  The  broad  banner  waved  and 
flaunted  cheerily  from  the  top  of  the  tall  flag-staff,  seeming  to 
promise  protection  to  the  stranger  and  the  defenceless ;  and 
as  the  ship  glided  majestically  over  the  just  rippling  waters, 
long  and  loud  were  the  cheers  that  arose  from  the  multitude 
collected  on  the  shore  ;  and  the  formal  salutation  from  the  fort 
met  with  a  ready  response  from  the  hearty  crew.  All  now 
was  confusion  on  board — a  glad,  joyous  confusion;  pleased 
exclamations  fell  from  one  lip,  only  to  be  snatched  up  and 
echoed  by  another ;  and  handkerchiefs  fluttered  in  the  air,  in 
reply  to  like  signals  from  waiting  friends  on  the  land. 


THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS.  199 

*  You  look  sad,  mother,"  repeated  the  boy,  lowering  his 
voice,  till  its  soft  tones  contrasted  strangely  with  the  univer 
sal  gayety,  and  turning  upon  her  a  glance  of  tenderly  respect 
ful  inquiry. 

"  If  I  felt  so,  I  should  be  ungrateful,  my  son.  God  has 
guided  us  from  a  land  of  persecution  to  the  garden  which  he 
has  planted  for  his  oppressed.  But  you  spoke  of  home,  Fran- 
c/)is,  and  I  thought  of  our  vine-covered  hills,  and  of  the  sunny 
valley,  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  where  I  have  left  sleep 
ing  all  but  you." 

"  Do  not  think  of  it  again,  my  mother." 

The  woman  pressed  her  hand  for  a  moment  against  her 
forehead,  as  though  stifling,  meanwhile,  some  deep  emotion ; 
then  said,  in  a  different  tone,  "  If  we  only  had  that  lost  cas 
ket,  Francois  !  The  captain  has  not  always  been  kind  to  us, 
and  I  dread  meeting  him  now — he  has  almost  seemed  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  our  story.  Heaven  help  us  !  but  it  will  be 
a  long  time  before  we  can  pay  this  passage  money !  " 

"  Never  fear  for  that,  mother ;  money  comes  almost  by  the 
asking,  they  say,  here,  and  I  shall  soon  be  a  man,  now.  I  will 
build  you  a  little  cabin  under  the  shelter  of  the  trees.  The 
men  have  told  me  just  how  it  is  done,  and  I  long  to  be  at  work 
this  very  moment.  I  will  build  you  a  nice  cabin,  and  I  will 
kill  game  which  you  shall  cook  for  us  two,  and  we  will  sit 
down  at  evening,  just  as  we  used  to  sit  in  our  pretty  cottage 
in  France,  before  that  horrible  persecution,  and  you  shall  — 
Don't  look  so  troubled,  mother ;  you  are  thinking  of  this  ugly 
affair  of  the  money,  now.  I  can  trade  in  furs,  and  —  do  —  I 
hardly  know  what,  but  just  what  the  other  settlers  do  to  get 
rich  in  a  day.  You  must  remember  that  I  am  not  a  little  boy, 
now,  but  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  you  too  ;  and  they  tell 
me  that  the  term  Huguenot  is  an  honorable  one  here.  Oh  ! 
we  shall  be  very  happy  !  think  you  not  so,  mother  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,  with  thee,  my  noble  boy ! "  returned  the  mat 
ron,  gazing  fondly  upon  the  eloquent  young  face  turned  so 
earnestly  to  hers.  "  With  freedom  to  worship  God  as  he  has 
bidden,  and  with  thee,  my  last  earthly  hope  and  trust,  beside 
me,  what  more  could  I  ask  or  desire  ?" 


200  THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS. 

The  ship  had  anchored  in  the  bay,  and  hurriedly  the  sea- 
wearied  passengers  were  landing.  Many  citizens  had  come 
on  Loard ;  and,  on  the  shore,  friend  grasped  the  hand  of  friend, 
with  such  cordial  words  of  greeting  as  the  first  heart-bound 
carried  to  the  lip.  Among  all  glad  ones,  none  were  gladder 
than  the  enthusiastic  French  lad.  With  bared  head,  and  joy- 
flashing  eye,  he  stood  beside  his  mother  watching  the  happy 
throng,  as  though  in  their  happiness  he  could  forget  his  own 
exile.  But  that  was  not  the  source  of  his  animation.  He 
was  looking  to  the  future  —  his  young  spirit  buoyed  up  by 
hopes  as  yet  unintelligible  to  himself,  but  brighter  for  the 
very  veil  which  covered  them  ;  and  his  heart  beating  with  the 
tenderness  which  was  all  centred  on  one  human  being  —  his 
widowed,  and,  but  for  him,  childless  mother. 

"  Stand  here  a  moment,  and  I  will  see  where  we  can  be  set 
ashore.  I  am  longing  to  plant  my  foot  on  that  spot  of  green." 
So  saying,  the  youth  mingled  in  the  crowd,  and  the  widow 
turned  her  eyes  from  the  view  of  her  new  home,  to  follow, 
with  the  fond  pride  of  a  mother,  his  graceful  figure  as  it 
moved,  all  unlike  the  others,  about  the  deck.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  he  returned,  the  masses  of  raven  hair,  which  had  been 
flung  back  to  allow  the  fragrant  land-breezes  to  play  upon  his 
temples,  half-shading  his  pale  cheek,  and  his  white  lip  quiv 
ering  with  agitation. 

"  Francois  !  what  is  it,  my  son  ?  speak ! ' 

"Oh!  it  is  too  much  —  too  much!  I  shall  die  here,  so 
near  the  land  !  "  and  the  boy,  forgetting  his  boast  of  manhood, 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  wept  passionately. 

The  mother  placed  her  hand  soothingly  upon  his  glossy  cuns, 
which  shook  as  though  the  throbbing  heart  below  had  been  in 
them  ;  and  waited  patiently  his  explanation. 

"We  must  stay  here,  mother  —  and  I  cannot  live  in  this 
horrid  ship  another  night,  I  am  sure  I  cannot." 

"  We  have  spent  many  happy  nights  and  days  in  it,  my 
son,"  returned  the  widow,  softly ;  "  but  why  must  we  stay 
now  ?  Who  detains  us  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  land  till  the  ship  charges  are  paid  —  so  they 
have  told  me;  and  that  will  be  never  —  never." 


THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS.  201 

A  look  of  troubled  surprise  spread  itself  over  the  widow's 
countenance ;  but  still  her  spirit  was  in  subjection  to  the  care 
ful  tenderness  of  the  mother.  "  I  am  sorry  for  your  sake, 
Francois  ;  but  cheer  up,  my  son !  It  will  do  them  no  good 
to  detain  us  here,  and  they  will  let  us  go  in  the  morning — I 
am  sure  they  will." 

"  If  they  would  set  me  on  the  land,  I  would  work  like  a 
galley-slave,  but  they  should  receive  the  uttermost  farthing." 

"  We  will  tell  them  so — we  will  tell  them  so.  Cheer  up, 
Francois,  and  let  us  look  upon  the  city  again.  It  is  but  a 
little  while  till  morning." 

Francois  seemed  to  make  an  effort  for  his  mother's  sake, 
and  raised  his  head ;  but  how  changed  was  the  expression  of 
those  two  faces,  as  they  again  turned  towards  the  land ! 

Only  a  few  feet  from  the  exiles,  had  stood,  for  the  last  ten 
minutes,  a  person  who  regarded  them  closely,  though  by  them 
entirely  unnoticed.  His  mild  blue  eyes,  and  fair,  good-hu 
mored  face,  bespoke  him  a  Hollander ;  and  the  massive  silver 
buckles  at  his  knees  and  on  his  shoes  proclaimed  him  an 
individual  of  some  consequence,  which  was  farther  confirmed 
by  the  deferential  manner  of  those  around  him.  A  close 
observer  would  have  detected  a  strange  mixture  of  the  child 
and  the  man  in  that  face.  The  eye  was  soft  and  gentle  as  a 
woman's,  while  the  mouth  evinced  a  singular  degree  of  firm 
ness  and  decision ;  and,  though  the  very  spirit  of  benevolence 
rested  on  the  retreating  forehead,  with  its  crown  of  half-silvered 
hair,  the  bold  determination,  with  which  the  broad  nostril  was 
now  and  then  expanded,  contradicted  the  bare  supposition  of 
weakness.  His  attention  had  been  attracted  by  the  interest 
mg  foreigners  ;  he  had  seen  the  boy  bound,  like  a  freed  deer, 
from  the  side  of  his  mother,  and  return  drooping  and  dispirited ; 
and  he  had  seen  that  mother  stifling  some  deep  emotion  for 
the  sake  of  her  boy.  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  under 
stand  their  language,  for  he  watched  them  as  though  studying 
out  the  cause  of  their  sorrow,  until  they  turned  away  theii 
faces ;  and  then,  with  a  look  of  sympathy,  he  left  them,  prob- 


202  THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS. 

ably  believing  them  to  be  of  the  number  who  had  crossed  the 
ocean  in  search  of  friends,  to  find  them  only  in  their  graves. 

Two  days  passed,  and  still  the  lone  Huguenot  strangers 
were  prisoners  in  the  ship,  in  sight  of  the  green  earth  and  of 
cheerful  firesides. 

"  This,"  exclaimed  the  widow,  as  she  crouched  in  the  cabin, 
desolate  and  heart-sick,  "  this  is  worse  than  all  the  rest — not 
for  me  —  /could  bear  it — 1  could  bear  anything  alone;  but 
my  poor  poor  boy  ! " 

She  was  roused  by  a  slow,  dragging  step,  so  unlike  the 
elastic  spring  of  her  idol,  that,  but  for  its  lightness,  she  would 
not  have  recognized  it. 

"  Mother,  it  is  decided — I  have  just  learned  our  fate ;"  and 
the  fragile  boy  sunk,  like  a  crushed  blossom,  at  her  feet. 

The  widow  tried  to  assume  a  tone  of  encouragement. 
"  What  is  it,  Francois  ?  anything  is  better  than  this  close 
ship,  with  the  green  earth  and  shady  trees  so  near  us.  I  can 
not  bear  to  see  you  droop  and  pine,  my  love  —  if  they  would 
but  give  you  back  the  strength  and  pride  this  sorrow  has 
stolen — if  I  could  but  see  your  bright  head  erect  again — " 

11  It  never  can  be,  mother ;  better  that  we  both  were  dead 
—  dead  in  our  graves  in  France  !  Oh  !  why  did  we  ever 
come  away  ?  There  they  would  give  us  nothing  worse  than 
a  dungeon  or  a  coffin ;  nere  they  will  not  let  us  so  hide  our 
selves —  will  not  let  us  die.  What  think  you,  mother?" 
and  now,  the  boy,  dashing  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead, 
changed  his  mournful  tone  to  one  of  mad  energy.  "  In  an 
hour  or  two,  we  are  to  be  exposed  in  their  market-place,  in 
the  open  street — sold  like  their  Holland  plough -horses  and 
Utrecht  heifers — " 

The  widow's  life  might  have  gone  out  from  her,  in  that  one 
wild  scream  of  heart-piercing  agony.  She  was  prepared  for 
toil — for  suffering  in  almost  every  shape.  She  could  have 
borne  even  slavery,  herself;  but  her  boy,  her  proud,  high 
hearted  boy !  the  beautiful  blossom  that  God  had  given  to 
bless  her  bereavement!  the  bird,  that,  if  but  an  autumn  breeze 
shook  the  roof-tree  rudely,  had  nestled  in  her  bosom  for  pro- 


THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS.  203 

lection!  —  her  frail,  but  noble  boy,  so  delicate,  so  gentle  to 
her,  yet  so  spirited  !  —  should  he,  too,  be  crushed  beneath  a 
foot  triple-shod  with  iron  ?  Should  his  fair,  polished  limbs, 
through  which  she  had  so  often  traced  the  flow  of  the  red  life- 
current,  which  her  lip  had  touched,  and  her  loving  eye  admired, 
canker  beneath  the  heavy  chain  of  a  life-lasting  bondage  ? 
Should  that  eagle  eye  grow  cold  in  childhood  ?  that  bright 
lip  forget  its  smile  ?  that  free,  gladsome  heart  become  the 
grave  of  all  its  freshly  budding  wealth  of  feeling  ?  Was  there 
no  appeal  ?  Could  she  not  find,  in  the  crowd  which  thronged 
that  busy  city,  a  single  human  heart  which  she  could  excite 
to  something  like  sympathy  ?  that  would  be  content  to  crush 
her  to  the  earth,  wring  her  spirit  till  every  cord  should  snap 
asunder,  and  save  her  boy  ?  Alas  !  what  could  be  done  by  a 
stranger,  a  lone,  feeble  woman,  confined  to  her  prison  in  the 
ship  ?  If  she  could  be  led  forth  to  the  haunts  of  men,  and 
they  would  listen,  those  who  could  understand  her  language 
were  fugitives  like  herself,  and  probably  nearly  as  helpless. 
So  the  miserable  Frenchwoman  crouched  upon  the  low  settle 
in  entire  helplessness,  and  moaned  as  though  her  spirit  would 
have  passed  on  each  breath.  Minute  after  minute,  minute 
after  minute  of  slowly  moving  time  went  by ;  and  still  the 
sobbing  boy  rested  his  forehead  upon  his  mother's  knees ;  and 
still  the  mother  clasped  her  hands,  and  moaned  on. 

There  was  a  quick,  heavy  tread,  upon  the  cabin  stairs ;  but 
neither  looked  up.  It  came  nearer,  and  paused  beside  them ; 
but  the  woe-laden  exiles  moved  not ;  they  had  no  ear  for  any 
thing  but  their  own  misery. 

"  I  have  good  news  for  you,  madam,"  commenced  a  some 
what  harsh  voice,  hesitatingly,  "good  news  —  do  you  hear 
me  ?  can  you  listen  ? " 

The  widow  raised  an  alarmed  eye  to  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
and  clung,  with  a  desperate  grasp,  to  her  son. 

The  boy's  apprehension  was  quicker.  "  Good  news ! 
What  ?  In  God's  name,  do  not  mock  us  !  " 

"  I  am  sent  by  one,  who  cannot  speak  our  language,  to 
say — " 


204  THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS. 

The  man  paused  a  moment  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"  Speak  on  !"  exclaimed  Francois ;  "  you  torture  us." 

"  To  say  that  your  ship  charges  are  paid ;  and  you  are  free, 
free  to  go  wherever  you  list." 

The  widow  stared  in  eager  doubt,  her  hand  still  grasping 
firmly  the  arm  of  her  boy.  But  Francois  !  the  drooping  blos 
som  of  the  moment  previous  !  How  the  eloquent  blood  came 
rushing  to  his  cheek,  and  how  his  dark  eye  flashed  with 
awakened  hope  !  Not  a  single  exclamation  broke  from  his 
lip  ;  but  he  stood  like  a  proud  young  eagle  pluming  his  wings 
for  flight. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  the  exiles  were  prepared  to 
listen  to  an  explanation  of  their  good  fortune.  When  they 
did,  they  were  told  simply  that  a  benevolent  merchant,  endeared 
to  the  common  people  of  New  York  for  his  many  virtues,  had 
seen  them  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  and  had  found  his  sym 
pathies  deeply  enlisted  by  their  evident  disappointment,  and 
the  sorrow  it  occasioned.  Afterwards,  he  lost  sight  of  them 
until  the  decision  of  the  tribunal,  which  would  have  made 
them  slaves ;  when,  finding  his  influence  insufficient  to  pre 
vent  the  disgraceful  proceedings,  he  had  stepped  in  with  his 
purse,  and  discharged  the  debt. 

"  You  are  now  free  to  go  wherever  you  like,"  continued 
the  good-natured  interpreter,  "  but  you  are  invited  to  the  house 
of  your  benefactor,  where  you  will  find  friends,  and  a  home 
until  you  choose  to  leave  it." 

"  God  bless  the  noble  merchant !  I  will  be  his  slave  for 
ever  ! "  exclaimed  Francois,  his  heart  swelling  with  enthusi 
astic  gratitude. 

The  widow's  lips  moved,  and  warm  tears,  for  the  first  time, 
gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  rained  down  over  her  face ;  but 
her  voice  was  too  much  broken  by  emotion  to  convey  the  sen 
timent  she  would  have  uttered. 

By  the  dock  stood,  (his  heart  in  Inn  face  and  that  all  sun 
shine,)  a  blue-eyed,  bright-haired  youth,  with  the  merchant's 
own  forehead,  and  a  lip  of  lighter  and  more  graceful  mould. 
The  young  Hollander  was  scarce  inferior  in  beauty,  as  he 


THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS.  205 

waited  there  to  perform  his  most  grateful  task,  to  Francois 
himself.  The  merchant  had  been  too  modest  to  appear  as  a 
benefactor  in  the  public  street,  well  known  as  he  was,  and  he 
had  sent  his  son  to  bring  home  the  strangers.  A  snug  little 
wagon,  such  as  was  commonly  used  by  the  better  sort  of  Hol 
landers,  awaited  them,  and  they  were  soon  seated  and  pro 
ceeding  on  their  way.  As  they  neared  the  market-place,  and 
the  merchant's  son  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  crowd  assembled, 
(some,  uninformed  of  what  had  occurred,  to  witness  the  sale  of 
the  helpless  strangers,  and  some  to  report  and  expatiate  upon 
the  generous  deed  of  their  townsman,)  he  instantly  gave  the 
reins  to  his  horses,  and  turned  his  head  in  an  opposite  direc 
tion.  There  was  at  first  a  slight  movement  in  the  crowd,  face 
after  face  turning  toward  the  street.  Then  came  a  low  mur 
mur,  swelling  gradually  higher  and  higher,  till  at  last  it  burst 
into  a  mighty  and  universal  shout,  "  LONG  LIVE  THE  NOBLE 
LEISLER  ! "  "  LEISLER  FOREVER  ! "  "  LEISLER  FOREVER  ! " 
VOL.  n.  18 


206 


IDA    RAVELIN. 

A   FANTASY. 

" I  SEE  nothing  peculiar  about  her." 

Very  coolly  and  complacently  dropped  the  above  words  from 
lips  which  seemed  to  be  totally  unaware  of  the  deed  of  death 
they  were  doing ;  crushing  the  rare  fancies  of  love's  weaving, 
with  the  same  indifference  that  your  horse  dyes  his  coarse 
hoofs  in  prairie-blossoms,  or  the  followers  of  the  Prophet  treat 
an  inconvenient  beauty  to  a  coral  pillow  and  a  silver  coverlet. 
A  heart-swell,  deeper  than  a  sigh,  a  quick  flushing  over  of 
the  cheeks  and  forehead,  then  a  closing  of  the  slightly  parted 
lips,  a  drooping  of  the  lids,  and  a  tenderly  caressing  movement 
of  the  hands,  followed  this  confession  of  short-sightedness. 
Oh  !  what  cold,  blind,  un appreciative  beings  fathers  are  !  As 
though  genius  never  hid  itself  under  a  baby-cap ! 

"I  see  nothing  peculiar  about  her." 

The  faithless  father,  as  he  repeated  his  observation,  brushed 
back  the  hair  from  his  full,  mathematical  forehead,  and,  cast 
ing  on  his  wife  a  glance  full  of  pity  for  her  weakness,  turned 
to  a  huge  folio  volume  spread  open  on  the  table  beside  him, 
and  resumed  the  business  in  which  he  had  been  interrupted. 
The  mother,  however,  was  not  abashed,  only  silenced.  She 
passed  her  fingers  over  the  vein-crossed  forehead  of  her  sleep 
ing  child,  measuring  the  distances  on  it  with  her  lips ;  then 
took  the  fat  little  hand  in  her  own,  still  following  the  purple 
current  till  it  terminated  in  the  rosy-tipped  fingers. 

"  Direct  from  the  heart,"  she  murmured ;  "  God  help  thee, 
my  Ida ! "  As  she  spoke,  the  child  opened  wide  a  pair  of 
dark,  burning  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  her  face  with  the  far- 
reaching  expression  she  had  often  observed,  and  which 
seemed  to  her  indicative  of  something  like  "  second-sight." 


IDA    RAVELIN.  207 

"  There  ! "  exclaimed  the  mother  triumphantly,  yet  without 
venturing  to  point  a  finger ;  for  it  seemed  as  though  the  child 
read  her  thoughts. 

"  Her  eyes  are  certainly  very  bright ;  something  like  yours, 
Mary." 

"  Oh !  you  don't  see  it — you  don't  see  it'  God  help  her; 
for  genius  is  a  dangerous  gift ! " 

"  God  help  her ! "  echoed  the  father  with  a  half  sigh. 

He  meant  his  wife. 

And  what  did  bring  those  two  strangely  assorted  people 
together  ?  Certainly  not  sympathy.  It  might  have  been  a 
trick  of  Dan  Cupid's;  but  even  he,  with  all  his  perverse 
blindness,  seldom  makes  such  a  blunder  as  that.  Besides, 
they  did  not  look  very  much  like  turtle  doves ;  and  nothing 
less  than  entireness  of  idolatry,  the  wildest  infatuation,  could 
have  bidden  fate  to  spread  the  roof  over  heads  so  different. 
The  marble-browed,  marble-hearted  philosopher,  and  the 
Pythoness !  I  never  saw  an  improvisatrice  ;  but  I  dare  say 
that  Mary  Ravelin  looked  more  like  this  wild  daughter  of 
passion  and  poesy  than  any  being  since  the  days  of  the  burn 
ing-lipped  Corinna.  Oh  !  a  superb  creature  was  Mary  Rave 
lin,  with  her  dark,  regal  brow,  and  sloe-colored  eyes,  centred 
by  a  blazing  diamond.  And  that  she,  of  all  peerless  ones, 
should  be  the  wife  of  the  sluggish-hearted  Thomas  Ravelin ! 
How  did  it  come  to  pass  ?  Enough  that  the  bird  of  Jove 
does  sometimes  consort  with  the  barn-yard  fowl — I  mean 
when  these  bipeds  are  minus  the  feathers.  Plumed  things 
keep  up  the  natural  distinctions,  which  the  philosopher's 
plucked  turkey  is  striving  with  all  his  might  to  destroy.  But 
the  most  vexatious  part  of  the  business,  was,  that  Thomas 
Ravelin  never  knew  that  he  was  the  possesser  of  a  double 
diamond ;  and  really  rated  his  wife  below  other  women,  in 
proportion  as  she  rose  above  them.  Did  Mary  submit  to  the 
Jiraldom  ?  Certainly.  Like  the  generality  of  mankind,  she 
did  not  know  herself.  She  might,  at  times,  have  had  a  kind 
of  inward  consciousness  that  heaven  had  stamped  her  soul 
with  a  loftier  seal  than  others ;  she  certainly  knew  that  she 


208  IDA    RAVELIN. 

felt  unlike  them ;  and  there  was  a  depth  and  intensity  in  her 
nature,  a  tumultuous  sea  of  passion  and  pathos  that  sometimes 
broke  over  all  boundaries,  and  gave  her  a  momentary  power 
and  grandeur,  acknowledged  by  all  but  one.  There  was 
something  in  the  smile  between  pity  and  contempt  which 
greeted  her  at  such  moments,  well  calculated  to  tame  the 
sybil.  She  feared  her  husband ;  not  because  he  was  unkind, 
but  his  glance  stilled  her  gushing  heart,  and  cast  a  strange 
spell  upon  her  passionate  spirit.  And  Mary  Ravelin  was  far 
from  being  happy.  No  undeveloped  nature  is  happy.  The 
inward  stirring,  the  aimless  restlessness  of  spirit — oh!  we 
feel  what  we  are,  when  we  do  not  know  it.  Neither  can  a 
misplaced  nature  be  happy :  cage  the  sky-lark,  or  bring  the 
spotted  trout  to  your  bower  of  roses,  and  see.  So,  though 
flashes  of  her  real  inner  self  were  every  day  breaking  forth 
like  summer  lightning,  Mary  Ravelin's  higher  nature  was 
undeveloped;  her  wings  had  been  clipped;  she  had  been 
borne  away  out  of  her  native  element,  and  she  was  conse 
quently  miserable.  Well  for  her  that  she  had  one  sustaining, 
regulating  principle.  But  even  her  religion  was  unlike  her 
husband's.  It  was  the  deep,  impassioned  faith,  the  high- 
wrought  enthusiasm  of  the  martyrs.  It  was  the  only  field  in 
which  her  lofty  nature  might  revel  uncontrolled ;  in  which 
her  power  of  loving  might  be  called  into  action  to  its  utmost 
stretch;  where  the  high  and  the  beautiful  all  combined,  with 
a  harmony  to  which  her  own  bosom  furnished  an  echo.  It 
was  this  which  subdued  the  impatient  soul  of  Mary  Ravelin ; 
made  her  the  careful  wife  —  I  had  almost  said  the  uncom 
plaining  slave  —  of  a  man  who  believed  himself  acting  a 
kindly  part  when  he  drew  the  chain  about  her  spirit.  Who 
dare  call  this  an  inferior  kind  of  martyrdom  ? 

Ida  was  romping,  still  in  baby-frock  and  pinafore,  among 
the  vines  in  the  garden  —  now  thrusting  her  white  arm  among 
the  leaves  to  grasp  the  bared  shoulders  of  an  elder  sister,  now 
shaking  the  blossoms  above  her  head  till  they  rained  down 
upon  her  like  a  shower  of  colored  rain-drops,  then  creeping 
away  under  the  deep  shadows,  as  a  hare  would  hide  itself, 


IDA    RAVELIN.  209 

and  raising  her  ringing  voice  to  challenge  pursuit.  Ida  might 
have  been  a  genius,  but  she  was  no  mere  spirit-child.  There 
was  a  love  of  the  real,  the  actual,  the  earnest,  breathing  a 
world  of  life  in  every  turn  of  her  pliant  limbs,  and  in  every 
glance  of  her  eye.  Whatever  might  have  been  swelling  and 
shaping  itself  in  the  deep  recesses  of  mind,  there  was  a  world 
without  that  she  gloried  in,  loving  it  all  the  more  for  the  key  to 
its  wondrous  wealth  which  she  bore  in  her  bosom.  And  so  she 
frolicked  on,  clapping  her  hands  and  laughing,  and  scamper 
ing  off  on  her  chubby  little  feet  to  plunge  headlong  into  the 
fragrant  thicket,  or  tumble  into  the  arms  of  her  playmates, 
with  a  hearty  joyousness  truly  refreshing.  Suddenly  she 
paused  in  the  midst  of  her  wildest  play,  pressed  the  tip  of  a 
rosy  finger  against  the  already  fully  developed  corner  of  her 
forehead,  and  gazed  fixedly  into  the  distance.  The  children 
frolicked  before  her,  but  she  did  not  move  a  muscle ;  they 
attempted  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  uttered  a  cry,  as  of  pain, 
and  they  desisted. 

"  There,  Thomas  ! " 

"  What  ? " 

"  She  sees  something" 

"  I  should  think  not ;  she  seems  to  be  gazing  on  vacancy. " 

"  I  tell  you,  Thomas  Ravelin,  that  child  has  a  spirit  in  her 
beyond  the  common.  Whether  we  have  cause  to  weep  or 
rejoice,  we  are  yet  to  know." 

The  husband  looked  a  little  interested.  "Her  tempera 
ment  certainly  differs  essentially  from  Ruth's.  She  must  be 
carefully  educated,  her  tendencies  checked  —  she  must  be 
taught  self-control  —  " 

"  Taught !  checked  !  educated  !     My  poor  Ida  ! " 

The  mother  said  no  more.  She  seemed  to  be  re-perusing 
leaves  of  her  own  life,  long  since  turned  over ;  and  as  she 
read  she  trembled.  The  child's  future  presented  a  dismal 
page,  for  she  saw  it  by  the  glooming  light  of  her  own  sunless 
past. 

"  So  unlike  other  children  ! "  whispered  the  mother  to  her 
self,  as  she  stooped  among  the  vines,  and  took  her  idol  to  her 

VOL.   II.  18* 


210  IDA   RAVELIN. 

bosom.  The  child  turned  its  dark  eyes  upon  her  wonderingly, 
passed  its  little  hand  across  her  throbbing  temples,  patted  her 
flushed  cheek,  twined  her  black  tresses  for  a  few  moments 
about  its  fingers,  then  nestled  in  her  bosom  and  slept  —  cer 
tainly  not  unlike  other  children. 

"  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions,  Mary," 
said  Thomas  Ravelin  one  day,  when  Ida  had  again  become 
the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Teach  her  !  No,  Thomas,  she  is  taught  of  a  Higher  than 
I  am —  there  is  that  within  which  may  be  shut,  locked  there, 
but  you  cannot  take  it  away.  My  poor  Ida  ! " 

"  Ruth  is  now  eighteen ;   she  is  well  taught  and  discreet, 
with  a  strong  judgment  —  " 
Ruth  is  my  dependence." 

"  You  have  perfect  confidence  in  her  judgment  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Sometimes  you  even  go  to  her  for  counsel  ? " 

"  Oh,  Ruth  has  five  times  the  worldly  wisdom  that  I  have." 

"  Give  Ida  to  her  care,  then." 

"  What ! " 

"There  is  something  in  Ida's  character  out  of  tune  —  let 
her  have  —  let  her  assist  you  in  regulating  it." 

"  She  can't  —  she  can't!  Ida  has  more  wisdom  than  all 
of  us." 

"  Madam,"  interposed  Thomas  Ravelin,  sternly,  "  this  is 
folly.  Have  done  with  these  fancies,  or  the  ruin  of  your  child 
wLV  be  on  your  own  head.  Ida  must  be  curbed  and  properly 
trained  —  " 

"  Then  her  mother's  hand  shall  do  it,"  interrupted  Mary, 
with  proud  dignity. 

"  As  you  will,  Mary  ;  but  you  well  know  the  fruits  of  an 
ill-regulated  imagination." 

The  mother  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast,  and  raised  her 
eyes  upward.  She  was  praying  God  for  wisdom. 

"  He  is  right  —  I  shall  make  her  as  miserable  as  I  have 
been,"  was  the  burden  of  her  reflections  that  evening;  "but, 
can  I  give  up  the  budding  intellect  to  another's  watchings  y 


IDA    RAVELIN.  211 

No,  no !  the  sweet  task  of  guiding  and  pruning  be  mine.  But 
I  have  so  many  faults.  He  calls  me  a  creature  of  impulse, 
unreasoning,  and  Ruth  is  always  so  correct  —  always  in  the 
right  —  I  shall  need  her  judgment.  Anything  for  thy  sake, 
my  Ida.  I  have  reason  to  distrust  myself,  and  Ruth  shall 
share  the  dearest  of  all  duties  with  me." 

Ruth  did  share  in  what  should  have  been  altogether  a  love 
labor;  and  little  Ida,  though  seemingly  untamable,  had  a 
system  of  thought  and  a-ction  prescribed,  which,  however  in 
effective  it  might  have  been  in  the  case  of  an  inferior  nature, 
soon  began  to  exhibit  quaker-like  results.  Instead  of  devel 
oping  her  nature,  it  was  repressed,  as  an  ignorant  man  woujd 
try  to  extinguish  a  kindling  fire  by  smothering  it  in  cotton ; 
she  was  carefully  guarded  against  little  outbreaks  of  feeling, 
when,  instead,  her  feelings  should  have  been  called  out,  and 
directed  in  proper  channels.  And  so,  by  degrees,  the  mother's 
influence  was  lost;  and  she  grew  afraid  to  take  the  child  upon 
her  knee,  and  draw  out,  as  had  been  her  wont,  the  charming 
little  fancies  which  form  the  staple  of  the  thoughts  of  child 
hood.  She  watched  it  tenderly  and  jealously,  treasured  all 
its  little  sayings  in  her  heart,  gazing  into  its  deep  eyes  writh 
the  far-reaching  sight  of  Cassandra;  but,  like  those  of 
Cassandra,  her  prophecies  were  unheeded.  To  all  but  her 
mother,  Ida  was  a  pretty,  frolicksome  child ;  with  nothing  to 
distinguish  her  from  other  children,  except,  perhaps,  an  unu 
sual  flow  of  spirits,  and  those  strange  fits  of  abstraction  which 
even  Ruth  had  not  the  art  to  cure. 

"Ida!  Ida!  Ida!"  shouted  Phil  Ravelin. 

It  was  useless.  Ida  sat  upon  a  mossed  knoll,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  knee,  and  her  bright  face,  with  its  parted 
lips,  and  eager,  weird  eyes,  looking  out  from  the  dark  masses 
of  hair  which  fell,  almost  too  luxuriantly  for  childhood,  about 
her  beautiful  shoulders. 

"  Ida,  are  you  asleep  ?  look  here,  Ida ! " 

The  boy  waited  a  moment,  and  then  shook  her  by  the 
shoulder.  Ida  uttered  a  shriek,  as  though  in  pain. 


212  IDA    RAVELIN. 

"  Ida  !  look  up,  Ida  !     I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

The  little  girl  shook  off  his  hand,  and  sprang,  like  a  scared 
gazelle,  to  the  nearest  thicket. 

"  I  won't  follow  her,"  muttered  the  boy,  drawing  the  corner 
of  his  jacket  across  his  eyes  ;  "  it  is  too  bad  ;  and  they  shan't 
make  me  hurt  her  again  —  indeed,  they  shall  not.  Poor  little 
Ida ! " 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Ida  had  snuggled  down  in  the 
deep  grass  with  her  brother,  talking  with  him  most  confiden 
tially,  but  not  of  her  strange  malady.  At  last  Phil  ventured 
to  make  mention  of  it.  There  had  been  a  long  silence,  and 
he  forgot  that  Ida's  thoughts  did  not  probably  follow  in  the 
same  channel  with  his. 

"  What  makes  you  do  it,  Ida  ? " 

The  little  girl  was  plucking  away  with  tender  care  the 
leaves  of  a  buttercup,  and  she  answered,  without  raising  her 
eyes,  "  I  want  to  find  the  angel  in  it." 

"In  what?" 

"  This." 

"  Why,  angels  are  away  beyond  the  blue,  Ida.  To  think 
of  an  angel,  with  its  great  white  wings,  and  may  be  its  big 
harp,  too,  coming  down  from  heaven  to  live  in  a  poor  little 
buttercup  !  Whew  !  " 

Ida  smiled  pityingly,  as  though  she  knew  much  more  about 
these  things  than  her  brother  could  know ;  but  did  not  care  to 
enlighten  his  ignorance. 

"  But  what  were  you  thinking  of,  Ida,  when  I  came  to  you 
a  little  while  ago  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  sat  looking  so  ;"  and  Phil  mimicked  his  sister  as  well 
as  he  could.  "  What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  guess." 

"Now,  Ida!" 

The  little  girl's  cheek  flushed,  and  her  lips  grew  tremulous, 
but  she  made  no  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  Ida,  dear  — just  me  —  whisper,  if  you  don't  want 
to  speak  loud.  Come,  put  your  lips  close.  Won't  you  tell 
Ida?" 


IDA    RAVELIN.  213 

Ida  looked  at  her  brother  expressively?  and  seemed  bewil 
dered. 

"You  are  not  a  good  girl  —  and  I  will  never  love  you 
any  more  —  never  —  because  —  because  —  won't  you  tell  me, 
Ida?" 

"I  —  I  —  sometimes  I  see  a  great  world,  not  like  this,  and 
hear  —  love  me,  Phil,  love  me;  for  it  hurts  me  to  tell.  It  is 
very  strange  —  I  have  been  there  some  time,  long,  long  ago 
—  and,  Phil,  I  am  not  your  little  Ida  there.  Don't  ask  me 
any  more,  but  you  must  love  me,  Phil ! "  and  the  child  sank, 
sobbing  with  excitement,  into  the  arms  of  her  brother. 

Phil  repeated,  at  home,  what  his  sister  had  said ;  and  Ida 
was  pronounced  the  victim  of  a  temporary  insanity.  She  was 
carefully  watched  over,  and  the  subject  never  mentioned  to 
her  again. 

"  Not  like  other  children  ! "  repeated  little  Ida  Ravelin  to 
herself.  "  I  have  heard  that  before.  Oh  !  now  I  remember  ; 
she  used  to  whisper  it  over  me  when  I  was  a  baby.  I  wonder 
how  I  differ."  Ida  carefully  examined  her  feet,  her  hands, 
passed  her  fingers  along  her  full,  white  arms,  bent  the  elbow, 
curved  the  wrist,  folded  the  fingers  in  the  palm,  clapped  her 
hands,  shook  them  above  her  head,  walked  with  her  head 
erect  and  foot  firm,  skipped,  danced,  tried  her  voice,  first  in  a 
shout,  then  in  laughter  at  the  returning  echoes,  then  in  a  gush 
of  bird-like  warblings,  and,  finally,  knelt  quietly  beside  a  clear 
pool,  which  mirrored  her  bright  face.  Little  Ida  might  well 
have  been  startled  at  the  rare  vision  in  the  water.  A  con 
noisseur  would  not  have  pronounced  her  beautiful ;  but  yet 
she  was  exquisitely  so ;  and  she  knew  it,  and  smiled  at  it. 
A  sweet  answering  smile,  like  a  visible  echo,  came  up  from 
the  water,  and  Ida  smiled  again.  But  the  innocent  vanity 
lasted  only  a  moment.  Her  next  thought  was,  "  How  do  I 
differ  ?  My  hair  is  dark,  and  glossy,  and  curling,  just  like 
Ruth's  ;  my  nose,  and  chin,  and  lips,  and  cheeks  —  why,  they 
are  all  like  Phil's,  only  Phil's  are  a  little  darker,  and  not  quite 
so  soft ;  my  forehead  is  like  mamma's,  and  my  eyes  are  like 


214  IDA   RAVELIN. 

mamma's,  too,  not  so  large  and  handsome,  may  be,  but  I  am 
a  little  girl  yet.  1  wonder  how  I  differ?  I  can  talk,  and  — 
may  be  it  is  the  thinking.  But  I  don't  think  much  —  I  play 
most  of  the  time.  May  be  it  is  because  I  see  —  but  she 
don't  know  that.  Unlike  other  children !  What  can  it 
mean  ? "  and  Ida  shook  her  little  head,  as  though  it  were 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  a  great  mystery.  The  subject  did 
not  grow  to  be  less  important  to  the  child  by  constantly  pon 
dering  on  it.  Her  laughing  eyes  became  daily  more  thought 
ful  but  yet,  as  she  had  said,  she  loved  her  play. 

Ida  had  crept  from  her  bed,  and  stood  in  her  night  dress, 
her  little  figure  all  bathed  in  the  golden-hued  moonlight. 
How  like  a  spirit  she  looked,  poised  so  lightly  on  her  tiny  feet 
that  she  scarce  seemed  to  touch  the  carpet,  her  arm  half 
extended,  and  her  lips  parted,  as  though  in  converse  with 
things  invisible  !  With  a  mother's  inner  sense,  Mary  Kavelin 
discovered  that  her  daughter  was  not  sleeping,  and  left  her 
own  couch  to  hover  near  her.  Drawing  toward  the  door,  she 
Ufted  the  latch,  but  paused,  with  suspended  breath,  on  the 
threshold.  Was  that  a  mortal  being,  shrined  so  gloriously,  or 
the  spirit  that  nightly  came  to  guard  her  daughter's  pillow  ? 
The  moonlight  streamed  through  the  open  casement,  and 
gathered  about  her  in  a  flood  of  radiance,  quivering  along  her 
white  robe,  striving  to  rest,  and  yet  tremulous,  as  though 
drunk  with  its  own  glorious  beauty,  or  agitated  by  the  prox 
imity  of  a  yet  more  glorious,  deathless  spirit.  Softly  crept  in 
the  incense-laden  breezes,  dallying  with  the  curls  of  the  child, 
and,  now  and  then,  casting  the  shadow  of  a  lifted  leaf  upon 
her.  Softly  and  dreamily  fell  the  shadows  about  the  aban 
doned  pillow ;  and,  far  off,  in  another  corner  of  the  room,  lay 
heavier,  darker  shadows,  which  Mary  Ravelin  kneiv  were 
naturally  produced,  while  yet  she  felt  they  had  a  deeper 
meaning. 

"  There  is  a  glory  about  thee,  my  child,"  she  whispered,  in 
her  throbbing  heart,  "  but  the  world  is  a  dark,  dark  place  for 
such  as  thou.  Oh  !  my  God  !  but  for  a  talisman  against  this 


IDA   RAVELIN. 

foreshadowed  misery  ! "  A  sob  of  agony  accompanied  these 
last  words,  which  called  Ida  from  heaven.  She  turned,  and 
sprang  to  the  bosom  of  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  mamma !  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come !  there  are 
things  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

Mary  lifted  the  beautiful  head  from  her  bosom,  and,  hold 
ing  it  between  her  two  hands,  gazed  long  and  fixedly  into  the 
child's  spiritual  face. 

"  I  will  tell  her  what  she  is,"  she  thought ;  "  how  rarely 
gifted,  how  angelic  in  her  nature.  I  will  tell  her  what  she  is, 
and  warn  her  of  the  future,  I  will  —  " 

The  thread  of  thought  was  cut  short  by  remembered  words. 
"  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions."  Mary 
shuddered,  and  her  eyelids  drooped.  She  could  barely  artic 
ulate,  "  What  is  it,  my  love  ?  " 

Ida  felt  the  chill  that  had  fallen  on  her  mother's  spirit, 
though  she  did  not  know  the  cause ;  and  her  voice  became 
low  and  timid.  The  inspiration  of  a  moment  previous  had 
been  scared  away. 

"Did  I  ever,  mamma  —  did  I  ever  —  do  —  we  —  come 
from  heaven  to  live  here  awhile,  and  then  go  back  to  heaven 
again  ?  " 

"  Come  from  heaven ! "     Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  Where  then,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Men  spring  from  the  dust  of  the  earth." 

"  The  dust  we  walk  on  ? " 

«  Yes." 

Ida  mused  a  few  moments.  Then,  raising  her  little  hand, 
she  pressed  back  the  blood  till  it  looked  white  and  dead  ;  then 
turned  it  downward,  and  allowed  the  red  current  to  rush  back 
again  ;  and  then  looked  up  into  her  mother's  face,  doubtingly. 
"  It  is  very  strange,  mamma." 

"  Everything  is  strange  in  this  world,  my  darling." 

Ida  was  still  examining  the  little  hand  that  lay  in  her 
mother's.  Finally,  raising  the  other,  she  pressed  it  against 
her  heart.  "Not  all  of  dust,  mamma;  what  makes  us 
live?" 


216  IDA    RAVELIN. 

"God  gives  the  spirit." 

"  Where  does  he  get  it  ?  " 

"  From  himself,  from  —  " 

"  Then,"  interrupted  the  child,  exultingly,  "  it  came  from 
heaven;  it  has  lived  there  with  Him  before,  and  it  was  in 
heaven  I  saw  all  those  beautiful  things !  I  knew  I  had  been 
with  the  angels  —  I  knew  I  had,  mamma ! " 

Mary  clasped  the  child  closely  in  her  arms,  and  longed  to 
encourage  her  to  be  still  more  communicative;  but  the 
charge,  "  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions," 
rang  in  her  ears,  and  she  tried  to  calm  her  emotion,  and  act  as 
her  husband's  superior  judgment  would  have  dictated. 

"  Ida,  my  darling,  listen  to  me."  Mary's  voice  was  low 
and  faltering,  for  she  was  not  used  to  the  cold  part  she  was 
endeavoring  to  act.  "  Listen  to  me,  Ida ;  for  you  are  a  very 
little  girl,  and  must  know  that  your  mamma  understands 
what  is  for  your  good  better  than  you  can.  You  must  never 
have  such  fancies  —  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  lie  awake  thinking  at  night —  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  mamma  ? " 

"You  must — you  must.  Oh!  my  Ida,  try  to  be  like 
Ruth.  Do  as  she  bids  you.  Play  with  the  children  in  the 
fields—" 

"  The  angels  come  to  me  there,  mamma." 

"  Run  in  the  garden — " 

"  And  there." 

"  Play  with  your  dolls — fling  the  shuttlecock — skip  the 
rope  —  " 

"  Oh !  I  do  all  those  things,  mamma.  I  love  to  play ;  but  I 
cannot  play  all  the  time — nobody  does  that." 

"  Well,  talk  with  your  papa  and  Ruth — " 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  think,  mamma?  " 

"  It  is  not  best  to  think,  unless — " 

Ida  waited  long  for  the  sentence  to  be  finished ;  but  Mary 
knew  how  incompetent  she  was  to  advise,  and  she  scarce 
knew  what  to  say.  The  child  still  gazed  into  her  face,  how- 


IDA   RAVELIN.  217 

ever,  as  though  more  than  life  hung  upon  her  words. 
"  When  you  are  older,  my  Ida,  you  will  know  what  thoughts 
to  indulge,  and  what  to  repress ;  now  strive  to  think  only  of 
the  things  about  you  —  what  you  see  —  " 

"  What  I  see !  Oh,  I  see  everything  beautiful,  every 
thing —  " 

"  What  you  hear  talked  of,  I  mean.  Will  you  try,  my 
darling?" 

Ida  looked  bewildered. 

"  But  don't  think  of  it  now.  Now  you  must  sleep,  and 
to-morrow  make  yourself  busy  with  your  play  and  your  les 
sons.  Good-night,  my  love." 

Mary  laid  the  head  of  her  child  upon  the  pillow,  pressed 
kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  lips  and  forehead  ;  and,  with  pain  at 
her  heart,  though  fully  believing  that  she  had  acted  wisely, 
went  away  to  her  own  sleepless  eouch.  As  soon  as  she 
was  gone,  a  merry,  half-smothered  laugh  burst  from  the 
parted  rose-bud  of  a  mouth  resting  against  the  pillow ;  and 
Ida  clapped  her  little  hands  together  and  sprang  out  lightly 
upon  the  carpet. 

"  So  it  was  heaven  that  I  came  from.  I  have  found  it  all 
out  now.  I  am  glad  I  asked  mamma.  But,"  and  Ida's  lips 
drooped  at  the  corners,  "  I  must  n't  ask  her  anything  more. 
I  wonder  if  I  was  an  angel  and  had  wings  up  there,  and  if 
the  things  I  see  now — I  wonder — but  mamma  said  I 
mustn't  think  of  these  things.  Why  must  n't  I  think  ?  How 
can  I  help  thinking  ?  " 

Ida  pressed  her  hand  successively  on  her  forehead  and 
against  her  heart;  as  though  feeling  after  some  secret  spring, 
by  the  moving  of  which  she  might  lock  away  that  flood 
of  thought.  "How  can  I  help  thinking?"  she  repeated. 
"  When  I  am  a  woman  maybe  I  can,  but  now  the  thoughts 
will  come." 

Ah,  Ida !  if  the  little  germ  fill  the  heart  of  childhood  with 
its  first  swelling,  what  will  it  be,  in  flowering  and  fruit-bear 
ing,  to  the  nature  which  cherished  it  ? 

"When  I   am  a   woman — but — why  shouldn't  I   think 

VOL.  n.  19 


218  IDA    RAVELIN. 

now?  Is  it  wrong  to  think?  Perhaps  I  am  very  foolish— 
perhaps  I  don't — "  Ida's  face  flushed ;  she  stood  for  a  moment 
as  though  perplexed,  stunned,  and  then  crouched  by  the  bed 
side  and  buried  her  face  in  the  drapery.  For  a  long  time 
she  remained  motionless  ;  and  if  not  sleeping,  she  must  have 
been  in  thought,  intense,  perhaps  painful  thought,  for  mem 
ory  is  a  traitor  if  it  deny  depth  and  intensity  to  the  mental 
emotions  of  our  childhood.  At  last  she  arose  slowly,  and 
with  an  expression  of  sadness  which  had  never  before  over 
shadowed  h«r  young  face. 

"Unlike  others!"  she  murmured.  "I  see  it  all  now — it 
must  be  so.  That  is  why  they  watch  me  so  closely — they 
are  afraid  to  leave  me  alone.  That  is  why  I  must  look  at 
other  people,  and  try  to  think  as  they  talk.  This  is  why 
everybody  is  so  kind  to  me,  and  all  that  look  at  me  seem  to 
say,  poor  Ida!  —  they  are  just  so  to  her.  That  is  why 
mamma  looks  at  me  so  sorrowfully,  and  the  tears  come  into 
her  eyes,  and  she  breathes  so  hard,  as  though  there  was 
something  strange  about  me,  and  she  had  strange  thoughts 
she  was  shutting  in.  Now  I  know  why  she  always  said  I 
was  unlike  other  children,  and  why  she  seems  to  love  me  so 
much  better  than  she  does  Phil.  I  wonder  if  Phil  knows  it  ? 
— he  must — oh,  yes !  he  knows  all  about  her.  But  she 
can't  talk,  and  I  can  —  that  is,  I  think  I  can.  Maybe  I  don't 
speak  the  words  ;  —  she  makes  a  sound,  and  I  suppose  she  calls 
that  talking ;  —  they  seem  to  understand  her,  too,  and  sometimes 
people  look  at  me  as  though  they  didn't  understand  me. 
Nobody  seems  very  well  to  understand  me  but  mother  and 
Phil,  and  Phil  not  always.  Oh,  yes!  I  know  it  all  now  — 
all — all  —  all !  I  am  like  poor  Cicely  Doane  ! ' ' 

Cicely  Doane  was  an  idiot ! 

Poor  Ida's  unemployed  imagination  had  at  last  conjured 
up  a  phanton,  which  it  might  be  difficult  to  lay.  Was  it 
strange  that  she  should  ?  Why,  the  child  had  suddenly  become 
a  philosopher ;  and  might,  by  a  very  simple  process  of  induc 
tive  reasoning,  arrive  at  the  grand  theory  of  Hume  himself. 
She  was  only  a  little  more  modest  than  he  — she  denied  simply 


IDA    RAVELIN.  219 

the  existence  of  her  own  mind;  he,  of  everybody's.  So  a  fal 
lacy  on  which  a  mighty  philosopher  could  waste  years  of 
time,  a  child  of  a  few  summers  fished  up  from  her  fancy,  just 
between  dreams  on  a  moonlit  night.  And  the  child  would 
be  laughed  at  had  she  ventured  to  name  her  folly,  while  the 
man  is  followed  by  crowds  of  admiring  disciples.  So  much 
for  the  boasted  wisdom  of  sages,  and  the  gullibility  of  their 
followers  !  But  there  was  a  difference.  The  child  unfortu 
nately  believed  her  theory,  and  acted  on  it ;  the  philosopher 
treated  his  as  a  brave  man  does  the  optical  illusion  which 
others  might  deem  a  supernatural  visiter,  walking  through  it. 
From  that  night  a  change  came  over  little  Ida  Ravelin. 
If  she  commenced  speaking,  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence  to  wonder  if  she  were  understood.  When  with 
other  children,  she  looked  on  their  amusements  with  interest, 
but  never  ventured  to  join  them,  for  she  was  sure  that  they 
invited  her  only  from  pity.  A  touchingly  sorrowful  expres 
sion,  mingled  with  traces  of  premature  thought,  crept  over  her 
face ;  and  while  she  was  as  much  in  love  with  life  and  the 
things  of  life  as  ever,  she  moved  about  as  a  mere  spectator. 
Thomas  Ravelin  thought  the  child  improving  wonderfully, 
Ruth  joyed  in  the  fruit  of  her  somewhat  laborious  instruc 
tions,  and  even  Mary  regarded  the  timid,  quiet  child  with 
something  like  a  feeling  of  relief.  Little  did  any  one  dream 
of  the  silent  influence  that  was  remoulding  a  nature  which 
God  had  fitted  for  high  and  noble  purposes.  To  do  as 
others  did,  became  little  Ida's  constant  study.  But  still  her 
mind  was  not  an  imitator ;  it  refused  to  learn  the  lesson. 
She  observed,  and  formed  an  independent  opinion  on  every 
subject,  but  never  dared  express  it ;  and  when  a  different  one 
was  given,  she  relinquished  her  own,  certain  that  it  must  be 
wrong.  She  still  felt,  too,  with  as  much  freedom  as  ever. 
She  loved  and  hated,  hoped  and  desponded,  but  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  scarce  had  a  right  to  feel ;  and  so  everything  was 
shut  closely  within  her  own  bosom.  Little  Ida's  cheek 
began  to  lose  its  roundness,  and  her  eye  its  rare  brilliancy : 
for  the  actual  was  receding  from  her,  and  she  lived  only  in 


220  IDA    RAVELIN. 

the  ideal.  A  little  world  was  built  up  within  her  bosom,  a 
dear,  charming,  life-like  world,  peopled  not  with  fairies  and 
woodland  deities,  but  with  real  flesh  and  blood  beings,  with 
whom  the  child  held  converse  every  day,  when  she  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  her  sister's  visiters,  with  the  firm  belief  that 
she,  poor  trembler,  was  a  companion  too  humble  for  them. 

"  I  am  unlike  them — all  unlike  them,"  would  Ida  whisper 
sadly  to  herself;  and  then  she  would  smile  and  turn  to  her 
imaginary  world,  from  which  nothing  that  belongs  to  human 
nature  was  excluded,  save  the  bad  —  turn  to  that  and  enact 
the  queen  for  which  she  was  intended  originally.  So  Ida's 
mind  did  not  feed  upon  itself,  but  grew  and  expanded ;  grew 
wise  and  lofty,  yet  not  too  much  etherealized  for  the  world 
that  lay  before  her,  while  she  shrank  from  contact  with  that 
world,  with  a  sensitiveness  utterly  incomprehensible  to  those 
who  could  not  take  a  peep  behind  the  veil.  And  there  the 
child  stood  on  the  threshold  of  life,  rare,  glorious  in  her  spirit's 
beauty,  but,  alas  !  crippled  in  every  limb.  So  much  for  trying 
to  amend  what  God  has  made  perfect,  oh  ye  quacks  of  the 
human  soul ! 

The  windows  had  been  thrown  up,  and  the  heavy  curtains 
looped  far  back  to  allow  free  entrance  to  the  fresh,  fragrant 
breezes ;  for  breath,  breath  was  sorely  needed  in  that  house 
of  the  dying.  The  trembling  soul  still  clung  to  its  earthly 
altar,  fanned  in  the  moment  of  its  fainting  by  the  clear  summer 
air,  which  swept  up  from  its  dalliance  with  the  budding  things 
of  June,  to  linger  on  the  lip  and  give  another  swell  to  the 
heart  which  had  once  gloried  in  its  joyous  ministrations 
Mary  Ravelin,  like  some  superb  flower  broken  from  its  stem, 
lay  withering  in  her  fully  expanded  beauty.  Her  eye  still 
flashed  and  burned  with  supernatural  brilliancy,  fully  matched 
by  the  deep  crimson  of  her  cheek  and  lips ;  but  the  hands, 
which  were  folded  over  the  heaving  bosom,  were  long  and 
thin,  and  tipped  with  the  ice  of  death.  Across  her  forehead, 
too,  wandered  little  violet  threads,  now  taking  on  a  dark,  un 
natural  purple,  and  contrasting  fearfully  with  the  deep  paloi 


IDA    RAVELIN.  221 

of  their  resting-place.  Her  hair  had  broken  from  the  con 
finement  of  the  cap,  and  lay  in  rich  shining  folds  of  raven 
blackness  about  her  neck  and  shoulders  ;  conspiring  with  the 
crimson  cheek  and  dazzling  eye  to  give  an  intensity,  a  proud 
queenliness  to  her  beauty,  in  strange  contrast  with  the  certainty 
of  immediate  dissolution.  Around  her  gathered  a  group  of 
weeping  mourners ;  but  little  Ida  was  not  with  them.  From 
time  to  time,  at  the  rustle  of  a  curtain,  or  some  slight  noise 
from  without,  the  eye  of  the  dying  woman  would  turn  itself 
on  the  door,  and  then  the  breath,  which  struggled  up  with  so 
much  difficulty  from  its  fast  benumbing  fountain,  would  falter 
and  quiver  in  agitation.  At  last,  a  light,  springing  step  was 
heard,  in  the  adjoining  apartment,  and  gently,  but  eagerly, 
the  latch  was  raised. 

"  My  Ida  ! "  whispered  the  dying  mother. 

Ida  had  filled  her  apron  with  flowers,  and  gathered  up  the 
corners  in  her  hand;  the  dew-spangled  buds  peeping  out 
in  every  direction,  eloquent  in  their  young  brightness,  but 
strangely  eloquent  at  an  hour  so  fraught  with  the  deep  solem 
nities  of  death.  The  light  of  love  was  beaming  in  her  eye, 
and  her  thin,  childish  face  glowed  with  exercise.  Beautiful 
was  the  child  —  though  not  so  beautiful  as  when  we  first  knew 
her — beautiful  was  she,  as,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  loving 
heart,  her  bright  head  peered  through  the  opening  of  the  door, 
and  her  sweet,  dove-like  eyes  sought  the  couch  of  her  mother. 
But  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  startled  her ;  and  she  stood 
thus  lightly  poised,  on  the  threshold,  her  lips  parted,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  eloquent  wonder.  A  woman  left  the  bedside,  and 
taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  beckoned  her  to  throw  aside  the 
useless  flowers. 

"  Nay,  bring  them  to  me,"  said  a  low,  feeble  voice  from  the 
pillow. 

Ida  dropped  the  hand  of  her  conductor,  and  sprung  to  the 
bosom  of  her  mother,  scattering  the  flowers  as  she  went,  and 
crushing  them  beneath  her  little  feet,  till  the  apartment  was 
filled  with  their  perfume.  One  hand  of  the  dying  woman 
closed  about  an  opening  rose-bud,  as  though  the  death-stricken 

VOL.  n.  19* 


222  IDA   RAVELIN. 

fingers  knew  so  well  these  beautiful  treasures,  loved  of  yore, 
as  to  select  by  instinct  the  fairest  among  them  ;  and  the  other 
arm  was  twined  lovingly  about  her  own  bud  of  immortality 
— the  strangely  gentle  being  who,  year  by  year,  had  grown 
closely  to  her  impassioned  heart. 

What  she  said  no  one  could  hear,  for  the  words  seemed  to 
be  pronounced  rather  by  her  struggling  heart  than  by  her  lips, 
so  faintly  and  falteringly  they  fell ;  but  Ida  heard  every  one  ; 
and,  as  she  listened,  instead  of  the  sorrow  which  was  deluging 
other  faces,  a  strange,  joyous  light  beamed  in  her  eyes  and 
played  about  her  mouth. 

"  I  know  it,  my  mother,  I  know  it,"  at  last  she  said,  eagerly, 
"  but  no  one  ever  told  me  before." 

"  Then  tread  the  earth  carefully,  my  darling,"  whispered 
the  dying  mother;  "  love  the  beautiful  things  which  God  has 
made  —  love  the  beings  he  has  given  you  for  companionship; 
but,  Ida,  Ida,  shut  that  rich  heart  from  every  eye.  Give  all  its 
wealth  to  Heaven  —  the  reeds  which  it  would  rest  upon  here 
will  sway  and  bend  beneath  it — there  is  no  support  for  a 
strong,  high  spirit  here.  Keep  thy  treasure  close,  my  darling, 
and  thou  wilt  be  happy ;  but  once  — " 

The  breath  came  gaspingly,  and  there  was  a  short,  severe 
struggle.  An  attendant  interposed,  and  endeavored  to  remove 
the  child,  but  the  arm  of  the  dying  woman  was  too  firmly 
about  her. 

"  Do  not  let  the  world  know  the  riches  shut  in  thy  bosom, 
Ida — they  would  be  desecrated,  stained — keep  them  for  thine 
own  self  and  the  angels." 

Mary  Ravelin  drew  the  lips  of  the  child  to  hers,  pressed 
them  fondly  again  and  again,  but  each  time  more  feebly,  till 
finally  there  came  one  long,  loving  pressure,  as  though  the 
icy  lips  would  grow  to  the  warm  living  ones,  and  all  was  still ! 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  dead  lay  the  fair  child,  her  bright 
locks  mingling  with  the  shining  black,  one  hand  pressing  the 
livid  cheek,  and  the  other  lying,  the  fairest  flower  of  them  all, 
among  the  fresh  roses  yet  sparkling  with  dew ;  there  she  lay 
in  her  young  beauty,  without  a  tear  or  sigh,  but  yet  the  sin* 


IDA    RAVELIN. 

cerest  of  mourners.  At  first  she  would  not  be  separated  from 
the  loved  clay ;  but  when  they  told  her  that  her  mother  was 
dead,  and  she  looked  into  the  glazed  eyes,  and  placed  her 
hand  upon  the  hushed  heart,  and  knew  that  it  was  so,  she 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  quietly  and  uncomplainingly  away. 

All  that  day  Ida  sat  beneath  the  little  clump  of  locust  trees 
in  the  garden,  and  watched  the  window  from  which  her 
mother  had  so  often  looked ;  while  thoughts,  such  as  seldom 
find  their  origin  in  the  bosom  of  a  child,  crowded  upon  her, 
and  left  an  impress  upon  her  sweet,  sad  face.  A  change  had 
come  over  Ida  Ravelin  since  the  night  of  the  first  strange  fan 
tasy  which  had  sealed  up  the  door  of  her  spirit  against  com 
munion  with  her  kind.  The  timidity  which  characterized 
her  during  that  year  had  remained  and  strengthened,  but  the 
self-distrust  had  vanished.  She  knew  there  was  that  \vithin 
her  bosom  which  those  about  her  could  not  even  comprehend ; 
she  knew  of  a  deep  mine  of  more  than  earthly  wisdom,  in 
which  she  daily  revelled,  and  the  existence  of  which  no  one 
imagined ;  but  yet  she  believed  herself  as  much  unfitted  for 
companionship  with  others  as  though  she  had  been  the  idiot 
which  she  once  imagined. 

"  I  lack  something,"  she  would  say  to  herself.  "  I  am  not 
like  them ;  they  never  speak  of  the  things  I  think  about,  and 
they  find  no  pleasure  in  my  words.  I  am  not  like  them ;  they 
cannot  be  interested  in  me ;  and  so  I  will  give  my  love  to  the 
birds  and  violets." 

Notwithstanding  this  feeling,  none  was  more  truly  loved 
than  Ida  Ravelin — not  by  strangers,  for  her  serious,  thought 
ful  eyes,  and  full,  intellectual  forehead,  had  too  little  of  the 
child  about  them  for  her  years — but  those  who  saw  her  daily, 
and  penetrated  beneath  the  covering  of  mingled  timidity  and 
self-consciousness  in  which  she  had  enveloped  herself,  saw 
the  joyous  spirit,  the  simple,  artless  grace  that  fashioned  all 
within,  and  loved  her.  But  even  they,  her  constant  compan 
ions,  did  not  see  all.  Sweetness,  and  love,  and  truth,  were 
the  qualities  which  attracted  them ;  they  did  not  see  into  the 
depths  of  mind  and  heart  —  the  intellect  and  the  affections 


224 


IDA    RAVELIN. 


braided  closely  together,  and  growing  up  in  rich  luxuriance, 
budding  and  blossoming  for  the  eyes  of  angels  only.  The 
only  expression  which  Ida  Ravelin  had  ever  given  to  the 
inspiration  lighting  up  the  inner  chamber  of  her  soul  was  in 
song.  And,  but  for  these  revealings,  even  the  watchful,  anx 
ious  mother  might  have  been  deceived;  there  was  so  little 
without  to  give  a  clue  to  the  contents  of  the  casket.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  through  all  this  Ida  had  preserved  all  her 
world-lovingness,  her  ready  sympathy  with  whatever  inter 
ested  her  friends;  and,  on  all  occasions,  she  evinced  a 
capability  of  judging,  and  a  sober  common  sense,  seldom 
possessed  in  connection  with  a  rich  fancy  and  ardent  imagina 
tion.  So  had  Ida  grown  and  expanded,  though  crippled  still, 
until  she  reached  her  thirteenth  summer ;  and  now  another 
change  had  come  over  her  fortunes  —  a  dark,  dark  change 
for  the  eyes  that  had  watched  over  her  timidly  and  with 
trembling,  but,  oh,  so  lovingly !  had  lost  their  light,  and  the 
bosom  which  had  pillowed  her  head  when  thought  had  made 
it  ache,  could  never  be  her  pillow  again.  Cold,  cold  was  it, 
and  hushed  the  heart  which  had  beat  in  concert  with  her  own, 
answering  every  throb  with  a  throb  still  wilder,  even  while 
the  lips  were  striving  to  belie  its  earnestness.  Ida  had  been 
taught  of  the  heart,  not  the  lips,  and  now  was  she  all  alone  ; 
orphaned  in  a  world  to  which  she  was  a  stranger,  doubly 
orphaned  in  spirit. 

All  was  still  in  the  house  of  death.  The  mourners  had 
gone  to  their  pillows,  perhaps  with  the  abandon  of  real  grief, 
to  add  the  awe  of  darkness  and  the  solemnity  of  loneliness  to 
their  already  weighty  sorrows ;  perhaps  to  rest  their  fatigued 
senses,  but  not  their  aching  hearts,  in  a  sleep  haunted  by 
dreams  scarce  less  fearful  than  the  waking  reality.  Two  old 
women  sat  beside  the  vines  which  shaded  the  open  window, 
talking  in  broken  whispers,  the  meaning  of  which  was  eked 
out  by  mysterious  nods,  and  involuntarily  drawing  nearer 
each  other,  as  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  commenced  a  fresh 
frolic  with  the  moonbeams  which  peered  through  them,  paint 
ing  fantastic  figures  on  the  ceiling  and  carpet. 


IDA    RAVELIN.  225 

"  She  has  not  been  a  happy  woman,"  whispered  one  ;  and 
then  she  gave  two  distinct  nods,  and  tucked  a  grey  lock  be 
neath  her  cap,  and  passed  her  fingers  across  her  keen  old 
eyes,  which  glittered  with  an  intenser  light  than  the  moon 
itself.  The  other  shook  her  head  and  sighed,  and  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  was  not  in  the  place  of  some  hard,  stern  peo 
ple  whom  she  might  name ;  though,  to  be  sure,  Mary  Rave 
lin  had  not  been  just  like  other  women  —  the  Lord  forgive 
her  for  speaking  such  words  of  the  dead,  for  she  was  sure  she 
had  always  wished  the  poor  creature  well. 

"  Hark ! "  and  both  old  women  put  their  fingers  to  their 
lips,  and  drew  themselves  upright  with  a  shiver  ;  for  the  clock 
was  on  the  stroke  of  twelve,  and  mingling  with  its  tone  was 
another  sound.  The  clock  ceased,  but  the  other  noise  con 
tinued.  There  was  a  click,  like  the  lifting  of  a  latch ;  and 
then  a  foot-fall,  which  struck  the  frightened  watchers  as  sin 
gularly  heavy,  in  the  apartment  of  the  dead.  They  both 
started  to  their  feet,  and  seized  a  light  in  either  hand,  and 
hurried  to  the  door ;  and  both  paused,  looked  into  each  oth 
er's  faces,  and  went  back  again.  A  low,  soft  murmur,  as  of 
a  pleading  human  voice,  pressed  down  by  a  heavy  weight  of 
tears,  stole  up  from  the  room  where  lay  the  shrouded  corse, 
and  mingled  with  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  and  the  beating 
of  their  own  hearts,  overshadowing  them  with  awe,  till  their 
limbs  refused  to  support  them,  and  their  white  lips  strove  in 
vain  to  pronounce  the  words  of  fear  which  struggled  for 
utterance. 

Slowly  moved  the  fingers  of  the  clock  —  so  slowly  that  it 
seamed  Time  himself  had  made  a  pause  in  fear;  and  five 
minutes  passed  like  a  weary  period  in  a  night-mare  dream. 
Five  minutes  more  crept  by — how,  the  frightened  women  could 
not  say — but  it  was  gone  at  length  ;  and  then  the  voice 
ceased,  and  a  low,  soft  breathing,  though  they  imagined  it 
singularly  heavy  and  sob-like  in  their  night-time  fear,  took  its 
place,  and  filled  them  still  with  terror.  A  half  hour  had 
passed  since  the  striking  of  the  clock ;  and  now  that  nothing 
but  the  monotonous  breathing  had  been  for  a  long  time  heard, 
the  old  women  gathered  courage,  and  again  proposed  looking 


226 


IDA    RAVELIN. 


into  the  dreaded  apartment.  They  moved  timidly,  and  opened 
the  door  with  the  utmost  caution.  At  first,  they  started  back 
in  alarm ;  hut  then  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  one  tried 
to  smile,  while  a  tear  crept  into  the  cold,  age-deadened  eye  of 
the  other,  and  fell  sparkling  to  her  withered  hand.  The  dead 
had  found  loving  company.  The  cloth  had  been  laid  back 
from  the  face  of  the  corse,  and  close  beside  it  knelt  a  fair 
young  girl,  her  two  hands  clasped  over  the  rigid  neck,  and 
her  head  resting  on  the  cold,  nerveless  bosom.  A  ray  of 
moonlight  peering  through  a  crevice  in  the  closed  curtains, 
glanced  from  her  hair  to  the  shoulder  of  her  white  night 
dress  ;  and  then,  breaking  and  scattering  itself,  was  spread 
over  her  like  an  angel's  wing,  or  the  visible  promise  of  the 
protection  given  by  the  redeemed  spirit  to  the  child  of  her 
almost  idolatry.  Lightly  and  reverently  crept  the  two  old 
women  to  the  spot.  One  of  them  stepped  back  and  closed 
the  curtain,  as  though  the  vision  were  too  heavenly  in  its  rare 
beauty  for  earthly  eyes  to  look  upon ;  but  the  other  opened  it 
again,  and  the  moonlight  rushed  in  gladly,  enveloping  the 
sleeping  child  in  a  yet  more  glorious  radiance. 

"  We  must  take  her  away,"  said  one,  in  a  whisper;  "  it  is 
a  dreadful  place  to  sleep  in  —  ugh  ! "  and  a  shiver  passed  over 
the  old  woman  as  she  spoke. 

"  No,  no ;  she  has  chosen  her  own  pillow,"  said  her  com 
panion,  tenderly.  "  Poor  child !  I  dare  say  she  will  miss  it 
many  a  time.  Well,  God  help  her !  If  Mary  Ravelin  was 
not  the  best  of  wives  —  and  I  would  never  say  but  she  was  — 
no,  no  ;  she  was  a  devoted  mother.  Poor  Ida  sleeps  soundly 
—  and  for  the  last  time  in  such  a  place.  We  will  not  disturb 
her." 

Almost  tearfully,  moved  the  two  old  women  from  the  sa 
cred  spot,  and  closed  the  door  with  care,  and  left  the  child  to 
her  holy  dreams. 

"  But  for  one  word — one  word  more  ! "  sobbed  Ida  Ravelin, 
as  she  laid  her  head  so  low  within  the  opened  coffin  that  her 
brown  locks  rested  in  glossy  waves  upon  the  pall.  "  Oh 


IDA    RAVELIN.  227 

to  be  assured  that  she  will  still  watch  by  me!  My  angel 
mother ! " 

But  neither  the  anguish  of  the  child,  nor  the  warm  pressure 
of  the  lips,  nor  the  tears  that  jewelled  over  the  midnight-col 
ored  hair,  and  wetted  the  white  muslin  pillow,  could  win  one 
answering  sigh  from  that  cold  bosom. 

They  took  the  child  from  her  slumbering  parent,  and  closed 
the  coffin,  and  lowered  it  into  the  earth,  and  placed  green  sods 
upon  the  little  mound  they  raised,  and  went  away  —  some  to 
mourn,  others  to  forget. 

Night  followed  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  the  morning 
came  and  went  —  the  Sabbath  dawned  and  waned,  and  gayer 
days  rolled  into  its  place  —  soon  months  were  numbered. 
The  golden  sheaves  stood  up  in  the  fields,  and  the  white 
clover-blossoms  and  nodding  grass-heads,  yielding  to  the  scythe 
of  the  mower,  changed  their  color,  and  gave  out  a  dying 
fragrance.  Then  the  apple-boughs  were  heavily  laden  with 
fruit  of  various  hues;  the  purple  plum,  for  very  ripeness, 
dropped  down  at  every  touch  of  the  wind,  and  nestled  in  the 
fading  grass ;  and  the  peach  peeped  from  among  the  sheltering 
green,  with  a  radiant  blush  on  one  warm  cheek,  while  on  the 
other  was  a  hue  more  lusciously  tempting  still  —  the  rich, 
soft,  golden  tint  which  seemed  melting  into  the  yellow  sun 
light  of  a  Septemoer  sky.  Then  the  trees  put  on  their  holy- 
day  suit  of  gold  and  scarlet,  flaunting  proudly  in  their 
gorgeousness ;  the  orchis  and  the  aster  bloomed  beneath  the 
night-frosts  in  the  garden ;  the  blood-hued  lobelia  looked  at 
its  face  in  the  sparkling,  babbling,  tripping  brooks  ;  the  violets 
awoke  from  their  August  slumbers,  thousands  of  purple  eyes 
looking  up  lovingly  from  deserted  garden-plots ;  and  the  year 
became  gay,  gayer  than  in  its  childhood.  The  gala-day  went 
by,  and  the  trees  put  on  their  russet ;  long  spires  of  pallid 
grass  waved  to  and  fro  wearily ;  the  wind  awoke  with  a  shiver, 
and  marked  its  course  with  sobs  and  wailings;  the  brooks 
grew  bluer  and  chiller ;  and  the  cold  white  clouds  trooped  off 
through  fields  of  pure  cerulean,  obeying  every  impulse  of  the 


228  IDA    KAVELIN. 

ice-winged  lord  of  the  storm.  Another  change  —  and  tne 
bare  trees  were  wreathed  in  white  ;  the  brooks  lost  their  sil 
very  voices,  or  struggled  on  with  a  death-like  gurgle,  amid 
barriers  of  choking  ice ;  the  wind  swept  freely  and  roughly 
over  mountain  and  meadow,  yet  on  wings  of  melting  fleeci- 
ness ;  and  the  grave  of  Mary  Ravelin,  lost  beneath  the  deep 
snow  of  winter,  was  well  nigh  forgotten  by  all  but  the  child- 
mourner.  She  kept  a  path  well  trodden,  and  her  pale,  thin 
face  often  bent  over  it  tearfully ;  for  though  the  momentary 
doubt  had  passed,  and  she  knew  that  the  spirit  of  her  lost 
mother  was  still  by  her,  still  hovered  over  her  in  the  night 
time,  and  watched  her  every  step  in  the  sunlight,  the  death 
mark  had  been  drawn  between  them.  A  deep  gulf,  with  a 
grave  at  the  bottom,  must  be  passed  before  the  two  could 
unite  as  formerly  ;  and  Ida,  notwithstanding  her  angel  guar 
dian,  was  in  the  world  all  alone.  But  it  was  not  always  to 
be  thus.  There  was  a  change  coming,  and  soon  Ida's  dark, 
thoughtful  eyes  grew  lustrous  with  a  strange  kind  of  happi 
ness  ;  and  she  went  about  as  one  in  a  dream,  a  blissful,  soul- 
fraught  dream,  for  she  had  found  a  friend.  By  the  time  the 
spring  violets  began  to  shake  off  their  winter  slumbers,  and 
open  their  bright  eyes  to  the  wooing  breezes,  the  world  was 
ringing  with  the  praise  of  a  poet  who  might  have  been  dropped 
down  from  the  clouds,  so  full  was  he  of  the  inspiration  of 
Heaven.  But  long  before  this  had  Ida  Ravelin  known  the 
new  minstrel  well.  A  scrap  of  paper  had  fluttered  in  her 
path  one  day  when  the  wintry  winds  were  blowing  keenly, 
and,  as  she  glanced  it  over,  her  eye  fell  on  familiar  thoughts. 
Ida  tried  to  brush  the  mist  from  her  eyes,  for  she  believed 
that  she  saw  indistinctly;  but  still  it  was  the  same  —  her 
own  thoughts,  her  secret  heart- thoughts,  that  she  never  re 
vealed  to  mortal  —  the  riches  of  her  own  bosom,  which  she 
had  hugged  to  herself  more  closely  since  her  mother's  dying 
caution  —  spread  out  upon  a  paper,  in  irrevocable  print !  And 
yet  she  knew  well  that  she  had  never  placed  them  there. 
What  listening  spirit,  what  winged  thing  hovering  near,  had 
stolen  this  honey  from  its  secret  lurking-place  in  the  deepest 


IDA    RAVELIN.  229 

recess  of  the  soul-gifted  flower,  for  a  careless  world  to  feast 
upon  ?  Ah,  Ida !  there  are  other  spirits  than  thine  roam 
ing  the  earth  in  loneliness ;  genius  often  has  its  twin.  The 
child  believed  her  thoughts  had  been  stolen ;  but  the  breath 
ing  language,  the  harp-like  measure,  she  disclaimed.  These 
were  not  her  own ;  and  these  betrayed  not  only  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  genius,  but  the  skill  of  the  artist.  Ida  stood,  with 
her  dark  spiritual  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  though  reading 
earnestly  from  a  page  invisible  to  others  ;  then  a  smile,  a  glad, 
glowing,  beautiful  smile  broke  from  her  lips,  and  lighted  up 
her  pale,  sweet  face.  Ida  was  no  longer  alone  in  the  world  ; 
she  had  found  a  friend.  And  here  the  finger  of  Fate  was 
thrust  forward,  and  some  wheels  were  stopped,  and  new  ones 
put  in  motion ;  for  the  strange  machinery  employed  in  weav 
ing  the  destiny  of  Ida  Ravelin,  grew  more  complicated.  The 
child  did  not  pause  to  reason ;  but  one  thing  she  knew  from 
the  day  when  she  found  the  scrap  of  paper  by  the  wayside. 
Her  spirit,  which  could  not  be  entirely  prisoned  in  the  little 
body  that  claimed  it  for  a  season,  was  not  condemned  to  wing 
its  way  up  and  down  the  blossoming  earth  alone.  For  weal 
or  woe  —  and  Ida  could  not  think  of  woe  in  that  connection 
—  she  had  found  a  companion. 

Spring  came.  Life  began  to  swell  and  breathe  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  flower-buds,  till  it  seemed  as  though  each  had 
in  it  a  living  soul,  as  full  of  energy  and  world-lovingness  as 
Ida's  own ;  the  brooks  leaped  and  sparkled,  an  Undine  laugh 
ing  from  the  heart  of  every  bubble ;  and  the  winds  murmured 
their  spirit-music  among  the  old  trees,  and  then  swept  down 
ward  from  their  high-communion,  and  stooped  to  kiss  the  fore 
head  of  the  child.  Everywhere,  everywhere,  save  in  the 
world  of  living  men,  she  found  companions  as  full  of  life  and 
joy  as  was  her  own  fluttering  heart.  And  oh,  how  that  heart 
fluttered,  as  the  young  girl  stood  thus  on  the  border  of  woman 
hood  !  Far  before,  her  poetic  imagination  spread  the  broad 
fields  of  life;  far  out  in  ether  gleamed  stars  innumerable, 
xvhich  were  to  be  her  way-marks  to  immortality ;  and  beside 

VOL.  n.  20 


230  IDA   RAVELIN. 

her  walked  her  guide,  her  inspiration,  her  sacred  spirit-friend ; 
in  the  guise  of  an  angel,  trod  he  by  her  side,  invisible  to  all 
but  her.  Glad  Ida  !  Enviable  Ida  !  Thy  rainbow  was  set 
in  tears,  true ;  but  it  was  as  a  triumphal  arch  thrown  over  tne 
gateway  through  which  thy  Destiny  was  leading  thee  up  to  a 
broader  view  of  life.  And  the  child  walked  on  humbly  and 
lovingly,  yet  without  a  fear ;  stepping  carefully  the  while  lest 
her  foot  should  crush  the  little  violet  or  the  dew-flower,  and 
kneeling  as  she  went,  to  mark  even  the  texture  of  the  jewelled 
gossamer  which  nimble  fingers  had  spread  from  green  to  green 
in  the  spirit-freighted  night-time.  Loved  and  loving,  but  all 
unknown,  stepped  Ida  Ravelin  beneath  her  rainbow  arch,  arid 
looked  with  a  startled  gaze  out  on  the  strange  world  in  which 
she  was  a  stranger.  Warm  breezes  came  wooingly,  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  and  laid  their  soft  fingers  on  her  forehead,  and  left 
a  touch  of  balm  upon  her  ripe  lips  ;  the  golden  sunshine  glowed 
in  her  path,  or  coquetted  with  cool,  fresh  shadows  which  invited 
to  dreamy  repose  by  the  wayside ;  a  thousand  glad  voices 
greeted  her  from  shrub  and  tree ;  flowers  blossomed,  wings 
glanced,  waters  sparkled,  and  the  heart  of  Ida  Ravelin  fluttered 
in  its  cage  like  an  imprisoned  bird.  But  the  cage  was  strong, 
and  it  could  not  free  itself  with  all  its  flutterings.  The  wires 
had  been  woven  over  it,  when  it  had  no  wing  to  raise  in  oppo 
sition,  and  now  it  commanded  no  resources  powerful  enough 
to  undo  the  elaborate  fastenings.  It  had  been  locked  from 
without,  and  from  without  must  the  relief  come.  So  Ida  was 
still  a  stranger  to  those  who  loved  her;  for  she  was  loved 
deeply,  and  with  a  reverential  tenderness,  inspired  by  her 
singular  purity  and  guilelessness.  So  delicate  and  helpless, 
too,  seemed  Ida,  that  every  arm  coming  within  the  charmed 
circle  about  her,  involuntarily  extended  itself  for  her  support ; 
but  she  needed  them  not,  for  in  her  helplessness  she  was 
strong — in  her  lack  of  worldliness  she  was  wiser  than  any 
worldling.  Still  there  was  a  sadness  in  the  strange,  prophet- 
like  eyes  of  Ida  Ravelin,  that  seemed  scarce  to  belong  to  one 
so  young;  a  sadness  which  had  stolen  up  from  the  grave 
where  some  of  their  tears  had  fallen  ;  and  though  her  heart 


IDA   RAVELIN.  231 

was  now  as  joyous  as  the  young  bird  that  waved  its  wing, 
and  wheeled  and  carolled  in  the  sunlight,  the  shadow  would 
not  go  away  from  her  face. 

So,  many  there  were  who  wondered  at  the  young  girl's 
seriousness,  and  thought,  as  they  looked  upon  her,  how  strange 
a  thing  it  was  that  any  blighting  influence  should  have  fallen 
upon  so  young  a  nature  —  and  then  turned  away  and  forgot 
her  existence.  Ida  was  quiet  and  unpretending,  too  simple 
and  timid  to  live  long  in  the  memory  of  a  stranger.  Others 
gave  a  second  look,  and  these  always  found  something  to 
interest  them ;  but  it  was  only  those  who  won  her  confidence, 
arid  who  appeared  as  guileless  as  herself,  that  were  entrusted 
with  even  the  first  key  to  her  nature.  These  were  often  star 
tled  by  the  stirrings  of  the  free,  gladsome  spirit  shut  within, 
and  could  scarce  think  the  occasional  gush  of  mirthfulness, 
which  seemed  to  have  its  source  in  an  overflowing  fountain 
down  deep  in  her  nature,  could  be  real.  But  who  should  be 
glad,  if  the  pure  are  not  ?  Who  should  be  happier  than  the 
gifted,  holding  as  they  do  the  key  to  the  bright  world,  and 
bearing  a  second  treasure  within  their  own  bosoms  ?  The 
God-gifted,  led  by  the  hand  and  guided  and  cherished  by 
Eternal  Love,  so  like  the  angels  as  to  be  counted  one  of  them 
even  while  lingering  here,  throwing  their  warm  sympathy, 
like  a  veil  woven  of  balm  and  sunshine,  over  the  world  of 
suffering  men,  treading  among  the  flowers  of  the  earth  with 
the  light  of  heaven  circling  about  their  heads  —  who  should 
be  happier  than  the  gifted  ?  And  Ida  Ravelin  was  —  oh,  so 
happy  !  Happy  was  she  in  her  own  genius,  in  her  power  of 
creating  inner  sunshine — happy  in  the  human  love  which  was 
lavished  on  her  by  the  few  who  wondered  at,  even  as  they 
.oved,  the  power  she  exercised  over  them  —  happy  in  the 
beautiful,  beautiful  things  of  God's  creation,  which  sprang  up 
beneath  her  feet  and  hovered  over  her  head — but  happier 
still  in  the  fond  dream  of  her  heart's  inner  chamber — the  deep, 
impassioned  love  which  she  had  lavished  so  unsparingly  upon 
her  spirit's  twin.  So  the  child  went  onward,  passed  under 
her  triumphal  arch  to  womanhood,  and  the  angel  within  hei 


232  IDA   RAVELIN. 

was  riot  recognized.     So,  many  an  angel  "  walks  the  earth 
unseen,"  since  the  close  of  the  gate  of  Eden. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  still  young,  but  not  beautiful.  It  is  said 
that  the  spirit's  beauty  cannot  be  shut  within,  as  you  would 
shut  the  diamond  in  the  casket,  hiding  all  its  light ;  but  that 
the  radiance  illuminating  the  inner  temple  will  spread  itself 
over  the  face,  proclaiming  to  all  who  come  near,  "  here  dwells 
an  angel."  I  know  that  sometimes  the  angel  in  the  bosom 
looks  out  through  human  eyes,  and  puts  its  own  impress  on 
human  lips  ;  but  this  earth  has  sadly  changed  since  the  ladder 
of  the  old  patriarch's  dream  was  let  down  from  heaven ;  and 
there  are  things  enow  in  it  to  make  the  beautiful  spirit  oftener 
veil  its  sorrowful  face  with  its  own  pinion,  as  though  thus  to 
wait  for  the  final  release.  The  radiance  which  would  be  daz 
zling  to  a  mortal  eye  in  heaven,  is  subdued  by  the  sin-heavy 
atmosphere  of  this  world  into  a  feeble  glimmer ;  but  it  is  all 
there,  and  waiting  only  the  call  homeward  to  become  glorious. 
But  what  if  the  beauty  of  the  spirit  should  come  out  before 
the  world  and  sit  upon  the  brow  ?  The  angel  would  still  be 
unrecognized ;  for  men  are  not  gifted  with  a  pure  vision,  and 
the  gross  eye  cannot  see  beyond  the  handsome  shape  and  the 
brilliant  coloring.  When  the  crowd  bows  to  personal  ugli 
ness,  made  beautiful  by  soul,  the  fallen  Zareph  and  his  fair 
Nama  may  spread  their  wings  —  they  are  very  near  to  heaven. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  not  beautiful ;  even  those  who  loved  her 
most  did  not  attempt  to  say  it,  and  strangers  passed  her  by 
without  a  glance.  It  is  true  that  her  slight,  delicately  moulded 
figure  was  faultless ;  but  there  was  a  shrinking  timidity  in 
her  step  and  manner,  which  effectually  shaded  this  beauty. 
Her  eye  had  a  clear  light,  but  that  was  timid  too.  At  times 
there  was  a  soft,  dove-like  expression  in  it,  and  again  there 
burned  from  its  centre  a  deep,  soul-fraught  brilliancy,  and  its 
vision  seemed  prolonged  far  into  eternity ;  but  it  was  too  full 
of  thought.  Her  full,  round  forehead  was  too  severely  intel 
lectual,  and  the  rich,  heavy  braids  which  bound  her  magnifi 
cently  formed  head  could  not  compensate  for  its  singularly 


IDA    RAVELIN.  233 

lofty  developments.  The  lower  part  of  the  face  was  of  a 
different  mould.  Ida  had  never  possessed  regular  features, 
although  in  childhood  she  was  strikingly  beautiful.  Her 
rnouth  had  been  made  lovely  by  the  sweet  smiles  which 
habitually  clustered  around  it,  rather  than  by  the  chiselling 
of  the  Architect;  but  now  the  character  of  the  smile  was 
changed.  Like  the  one  centred  in  the  eye,  it  was  heavily 
laden  with  thought.  Ida  had  a  bosom  full  of  light  and  love ; 
and,  in  rich,  heavy  clusters,  lay  upon  her  heart  the  closely- 
folded  blossoms  of  genius.  Upon  her  heart.  That  genius 
would  ever  build  its  altar  there  ! 

But  Ida  had  her  hand  closely  on  her  bosom's  door,  lest 
these  treasures  should  escape.  She  had  placed  it  there  at  the 
first  stirring  of  the  swelling  buds,  and,  as  they  gradually 
struggled  more  for  freedom,  she  pressed  her  hand  down  more 
and  more  closely,  and  whispered  to  herself —  "  Never  —  never 
—  never,  but  in  heaven  ! "  And  this  struggle  made  itself  vis 
ible  upon  her  face.  The  smile  was  there,  but  it  was  thought 
ful  ;  the  sweetness  had  not  vanished,  but  it  was  usually  over 
shadowed  by  reserve  ;  sometimes  there  was  a  soft  lovingness 
flitted  to  her  lip,  but  it  could  scarce  be  recognized  before  it 
retreated,  as  though  chilled  or  scared  back  by  the  cold  world 
it  looked  out  upon.  It  would  not  have  been  singular  for  a 
stranger  to  imagine  her  a  gloomy  ascetic ;  common  acquaint 
ances  considered  her  merely  uninteresting ;  but,  despite  the 
prisoned  genius,  with  all  its  swellings,  and  with  all  its  strug- 
glings,  her  friends,  those  who  knew  her  best,  took  her  to  their 
hearts,  and  felt  that  there  was  an  angel  there,  although  they 
did  no  see  beyond  the  wires  of  the  cage.  Ida  was  not  morose, 
nor  misanthropic,  nor  sad,  nor  an  enemy  to  mirth ;  she  was 
only  too  thoughtful  and  too  much  reserved.  It  did  not  mate 
rially  affect  her  intercourse  with  those  she  really  loved  ;  for 
love  covers  a  multitude  of  shortcomings,  and  Ida  had  enough 
to  satisfy  common  friendship,  without  encroaching  upon  her 
sacred  treasure.  Few  would  believe  that  Ida  was  happy  ;  for, 
though  she  looked  with  an  interested  eye  on  mirthful  doings, 
she  never  mingled  in  them.  She  had  seen  but  little  of  the 

VOL.  11.  20* 


234  IDA    RAVELIN. 

outer  world ;  and,  though  she  had  studied  closely  the  few 
pages  within  her  reach,  she  was  but  slightly  under  its  influ 
ence,  either  for  joy  or  sorrow.  However  dense  the  clouds 
above  her,  the  rainbow  always  spanned  her  heart.  Her  world 
was  within ;  and,  as  it  was  too  sacred  to  be  looked  upon  by 
other  eyes,  she  shut  up  with  it  the  bliss  it  brought,  and  car 
ried  everywhere  her  Eden  with  her.  Oh,  Ida  was  deeply, 
purely,  silently  happy.  Misery  is  not,  as  worldlings  have 
declared,  and  the  puling  sentimentalist  labored  to  establish, 
the  twin  gift  of  genius.  It  is  not  so  —  it  cannot  be  !  Let 
the  whole  world  frown  ;  let  the  cloud  darken,  and  the  winds 
rave  —  it  is  all  the  same  ;  the  fires  of  adversity  will  burn  away 
only  the  dross,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all,  will  walk  unseen  the 
white-winged  angel.  And  that  holy  angel  spreads  its  shield 
over  the  sensitive  bosom,  and  holds  always  to  the  thirsty  lips 
the  cup  of  bliss.  Are  my  true  words  doubted,  because  there 
are  so  many  examples  of  a  different  seeming  ?  Oh  !  there 
are  men,  drunk  with  vain-glory,  and  with  ambition,  and  other 
earth -distilled  draughts,  whose  lips  never  touched  the  cup  of 
inspiration.  Men  sometimes  hear  a  voice  in  the  air,  and  mis 
take  its  tone.  There  are  many  false  angels  abroad,  and  they 
deceive  many.  Some,  too,  have  filled  their  bosoms  up  with 
defilements ;  and  from  such  the  angel  turns  away  to  weep, 
casting  her  protecting  shield  at  her  feet,  while  the  shafts  of 
misery  fly  thick  and  fast.  Genius  cannot  bring  her  accus 
tomed  blessing  to  those  who  would  have  her  dwell  apart  from, 
purity ;  and  when  her  temple  grows  dark  with  earthliness, 
her  lamp  blazes  in  the  midst,  a  consuming  fire.  He  who 
would  pollute  the  wings  of  his  bosom-angel,  must  needs  be 
miserable.  But,  the  gifted,  the  God-gifted,  do  they  but 
'  recognize  their  Benefactor,  are,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  the 
little  children  of  this  world  ;  and  little  children  have  received 
at  the  hands  of  a  Holy  One  an  especial  blessing.  So  the 
thoughtful-eyed,  sober-lipped  Ida  was  supremely  happy. 

Their  voices  —  those  of  Ida  and  the  brother-spirit  that  she 
had  so  earl    recognized  —  had  met  each  other  in  the 


IDA    RAVELIN.  235 

air,  and  mingled  tones.  Long  since  had  the  twain  linked 
themselves  in  a  relationship  which  only  the  blessed  little  chil 
dren,  gifted  with  spirit-pulses,  can  understand.  Why  could 
not  this  be  enough  ?  Ida  thought  it  was ;  and  yet,  lovers  in 
spirit,  in  person  strangers,  they  met. 

It  was  a  cold,  dark,  dismal,  cloud-curtained  morning,  when 
Ida  Ravelin  was  called  to  confide  her  heart-worship  to  the 
less  romantic  eye.  She  had  been  conscious  of  a  strange 
shadow,  hanging  over  her  head,  for  days ;  and  now  she 
whispered,  with  white  lips,  "  It  is  falling  —  it  is  falling ! "  and 
arose  to  obey  the  summons. 

Ugh  !  how  chillingly  the  hurrying  wind  swept  around  the 
corner  ;  and  what  a  dismal  tone  it  had,  like  the  midnight 
howl,  which  comes  to  tell,  to  the  invalid,  tales  of  the  noisome 
grave.  Heavy  was  the  slow,  dragging  step  of  Ida  Ravelin, 
and  heavier  still  her  heart.  She  knew  that  the  eye  of  curi 
osity,  the  earth-taught  tongue,  could  not  link  closer  together 
two  spirits  which  had  no  need  of  such  mediums.  One  by  one, 
stair  after  stair,  her  steps  slowly  counted  ;  finally,  she  poised 
for  one  agitating  moment  on  the  last,  with  a  foot  thrust 
tremblingly  and  doubtfully  forward,  again  descended,  moved 
onward  mechanically,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  door. 
Hast  thou  but  been  dreaming,  Ida ;  and  is  the  vapor  which 
thy  heart's  censer  has  caused  to  envelop  thee,  to  pass  off  like 
a  smoke-curl  in  the  clear  air,  leaving  thee  all  disrobed  of  thy 
enchantment  ?  Not  so.  Ida  Ravelin  would  have  known  her 
poet ;  for  the  angel  of  genius  had  a  glorious  temple.  But 
she  did  not  spring  forward  to  meet  him ;  she  did  not  smile ; 
e/en  the  usual  light  of  her  eye  was  clouded  in  ;  she  would 
have  known  her  poet,  but  she  was  not  recognized. 

Slowly  and  chillingly  the  shadow  settled  down  upon  her 
heart ;  and  then  came  a  cold  smile,  and  words  as  cold ;  and 
the  twain  sat  together,  like  strangers  of  different  lands,  with 
out  any  common  sympathies,  and  spoke  of  that  which  inter 
ested  neither,  and  mocked  each  other  with  hollow  compli 
ments  ;  and  then,  with  a  cold  clasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  formal 
bow,  they  parted.  Ida's  heart  had  never  beat  so  sluggishly 


236  IDA    RAVELIN. 

as  at  that  moment,  and  her  lip  might  have  been  moulded  of 
iron. 

They  met  again,  and  yet  again,  and  again ;  and  still  Ida's 
voice  seemed  chilling,  her  lip  severe,  and  her  manner  almost 
repellant.  She  felt  that  she  was  unknown ;  and  the  entire 
sunshine  and  beauty  of  years  of  dreamy  bliss  seemed  to  her 
darkened  in  a  moment.  Finally,  however,  the  smile  upon 
her  lip  began  to  beam  Avith  soul ;  a  dewiness  crept  to  her  eye, 
a  softness  gathered  about  her  heart,  and  words  were  spoken 
which  could  never  have  been  addressed  to  any  other.  She 
knew,  though  he  did  not  say  it,  that  her  poet-friend  had 
begun  to  recognize  his  beautiful  invisible ;  and  the  broken 
spirit-link  was  melting  into  itself,  and  conjoining.  There 
was  something,  too,  in  his  voice,  wThich  went  down  into  her 
heart,  and  touched  a  chord  that  had  never  before  vibrated. 
On  a  sudden,  all  the  hoarded  wealth  of  her  nature  was  stirred. 
The  angel  sprang  up,  and  spread  a  pair  of  wings  gloriously 
beautiful.  The  swelling  buds  burst  into  full  blossom,  raising 
a  cloud  of  perfume.  A  thousand  little  harps  were  tuned,  and, 
at  every  breath  she  drew,  her  bosom  quivered  with  the  rich 
gush  of  melody.  And  her  hand,  and  her  lip  too,  quivered, 
and  her  voice  grew  tremulous  with  strange  emotion.  The 
nour  of  release  had  come.  A  finger  from  without  had 
touched  the  hidden  spring,  and  the  long  prisoned  spirit  of  Ida 
Kavelin  was  free.  But  it  did  not  leap  forth  from  its  cage 
exultingly.  The  atmosphere  of  earth  was  an  untried  element 
to  it ;  and  there  was  still  a  hand  striving  to  hold  it  back. 
But  Ida  Ravelin  was  no  longer  mistress  of  her  own  nature. 
The  weak  hand  trembled  —  the  tumult  increased  —  and  the 
wild  flood  bounded  past  the  slight  barrier.  The  angel  was 
triumphant !  No  wonder  that  Ida  was  perplexed  and  over 
come  with  doubt  and  dread,  trembling  at  the  present,  and 
refusing  to  look  on  the  future.  The  low,  melodious  tones  of 
her  poet-friend  were  full  of  encouragement  and  hope,  but  his 
eye  was  earthly.  He  could  not  see  down  into  the  depths  of 
spirit  which  his  voice  had  stirred,  and  understand  the  cause 
of  the  quickened  breath  and  the  tremulous  lip.  Gently,  and 


IDA    RAVELIN.  237 

with  patient  kindness,  hour  after  hour,  he  strove  with  poor 
Ida's  weak  timidity,  until  his  words  became,  for  the  time, 
strength  to  her;  and,  at  last,  most  confidingly  she  placed  her 
hand  in  his  to  be  taught  and  guided. 

The  noble  poet  and  his  Ida  (his  before  heaven,  though  only 
tne  pure  above  would  know  how  to  recognize  the  tie  that 
bound  them)  stood  in  the  night  air,  with  clasped  hands  and 
clasped  spirits.  The  stars  up  in  heaven  looked  kindly  upon 
them,  and  the  wind  swept  by,  kissing  warm  lips,  and  dallying 
with  curls,  and  touching  with  soft  wing  a  brow  which  bore 
the  Deity's  own  impress.  Far  before  them  stretched  the  still 
waters  of  the  most  beautiful  lake  in  the  wide  world,  with  the 
lights  from  the  opposite  shore  twinkling  through  the  trees, 
and  flashing  out  upon  it  in  sudden  gushes,  which  broke  and 
departed,  leaving  their  places  to  others ;  and  behind  them 
were  the  swelling  tones  of  cunning  instruments,  bearing  on 
their  wings  of  melody  the  soul-laden  voice  of  a  woman.  The 
full  moon  was  far  up  in  heaven,  and  cast  upon  the  water  a 
broad  stream  of  golden  light.  A  little  boat  would  now  and 
then  shoot  across  this  moon-gift,  the  oars  flashing  with  dia 
monds  as  it  went,  dragging  far  after  it  a  long,  glittering  train  ; 
and  then  it  would  steal  silently  along  the  shore,  and  the  rough, 
boatmen  would  rest  on  their  oars,  and  feast  their  eyes  on 
beauty  and  their  ears  on  melody,  and  perhaps  dream  of 
holier  things  than  had  ever  found  a  place  in  their  thoughts 
before. 

"  The  angels  have  paved  a  pathway  of  light  —  our  path  of 
life,  dear  Ida." 

In  a  moment  a  cloud  passed  over  it,  a  shadow  fell,  and  the 
path  was  broken.  Ida  raised  her  dark,  pensive  eyes  to  the 
poet's  face,  but  her  voice  was  shut  in  her  heart. 

"  It  is  only  for  a  moment.  Some  steps  must  be  taken  in 
darkness.  We  are  yet  on  earth,  and  earth  is  a  place  of  shad 
ows.  But  mark  the  brilliance  beyond,  as  though  the  portal 
of  Paradise  were  already  thrown  open ;  and  its  glory  lighted 
up  our  way  as  we  draw  near  our  haven  of  rest.  It  is  a  beau- 
'iful  path,  my  Ida  ! " 


238  IDA    RAVELIN. 

"  Beautiful." 

Ida  Kavelin  responded  mechanically ;  but  she  rested  her 
cheek  in  her  palm,  and  silently  retraced  her  own  steps  all 
along  the  emblematic  path.  It  was  narrow  at  first,  and  bro 
ken  Dark  waves  came  up  and  parted  the  light;  then  it  would 
rush  together  again,  the  bright  ripples  kissing  and  com 
mingling.  Further  on  were  other  little  breaks,  but  the  bril 
liance  grew  broader  and  stronger,  as  she  proceeded,  until  she 
came  to  the  shadow. 

"  It  has  been  a  heavy  one,"  thought  Ida,  "  this  disappoint 
ment  and  this  struggle,  but  —  why  struggle  ?  '  Unlike  others ! ' 

—  it  was  whispered  in  my  infancy — it  steals  up  from  the  sod 
every  time  I  kneel  beside  her  grave.     My  mother !  my  angel 
mother  !  I  can  *  keep  my  treasures  for  the  eye  of  heaven?  as 
thou  badest  me,  but  I  must  be  true  to  my  better  nature." 

The  spirit  in  her  bosom  arose  and  asserted  its  might.  A 
serene  smile  sat  upon  her  lip ;  a  steady  light  came  to  her 
eye ;  and  her  quivering  pulse  calmed  itself  and  beat  with 
slow,  triumphant  earnestness.  Her  companion  looked  at  her 
and  wondered  at  the  change. 

"It  has  been  a  heavy  one,  but  now  I  am  free!"  The 
words  passed  from  her  lips  in  a  low  murmur,  which  the  ear 
could  not  catch;  but  she  felt  her  heart  grow  strong;  and,  as 
she  looked  again,  the  shadow  was  lifted  from  the  water. 

The  next  day  Ida  and  her  poet  friend  parted ;  and,  though 
she  did  not  say  it,  she  knew  their  next  meeting  would  be  in 
heaven.  They  had  not  loved  as  others  do ;  it  had  been  a 
peculiar  affection,  coined  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  two 
spirits  which  had  been  melted  into  each  other  long  before  a 
thought  had  been  given  to  the  caskets  which  contained  them 

—  pure,  and  holy,  and  elevated  —  without  a  particle  of  earth- 
liness  commingling — a  beautiful  and  a  hallowed  thing.     And 
they  had  been  brought  no  nearer  by  the  meeting.     The  clay 
was  a  hindrance  to  them,  and  now  Ida  longed  to  cast  it  off. 
The  chain  which  linked  them  together  could  only  gather 
strength  in  heaven.     And  yet  it  was  a  sorrowful  thing  to  part, 
with  all  the  sweet  remembrances  encircling  those  few  bles?ed 


IDA    RAVELIN  239 

days  lying  in  their  fresh,  pure  beauty  upon  the  heart.  The 
tears  rushed  to  the  eyes  of  Ida,  but  they  were  shut  back  again 
resolutely ;  her  voice  became  even  more  tremulous  than  on 
the  day  previous,  and  her  pale  lip  quivered  with  strong  emo 
tion.  Poor  Ida !  The  cloud  had  not  wholly  vanished. 

"  If  he  could  but  know  that  the  parting  is  for  time,"  whis 
pered  the  heart  of  Ida ;  and  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand,  for  the  tears  would  be  kept  back  no  longer.  For  the 
first  time  she  was  guilty  of  a  murmur,  and  that  against  the 
beloved. 

'His  heart  could  not  be  aching  so,  and  mine  not  recognize 
the  pain." 

She  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand,  the  pressure  of  lips  on  her 
bowed  forehead,  heard  a  low,  sweet  word  of  farewell,  that 
might  never  be  forgotten,  a  step  in  the  passage  that  fell  on  her 
ear  like  the  toll  of  a  muffled  bell,  the  closing  of  a  door,  and 
she  was  alone  with  heaven.  Poor  Ida !  How  she  sobbed 
and  wore  out  the  lagging  hours  with  weeping. 

Enviable  Ida !  She  was  awake.  The  angel  in  her  bosom 
fluttered  no  longer  behind  the  prisoning  bars;  and  on  the 
broad  earth  not  a  human  heart  so  blest  as  hers.  Intense, 
earnest  thought  still  made  its  home  in  her  eye ;  but  beside  it 
was  the  light  of  conscious  inner  power,  and  purity,  and  love, 
all  commingling ;  a  self-acknowledged  affinity  to  the  invisible 
ones  which  hovered  over  her.  The  harp  in  her  bosom  had 
been  attuned  to  those  above,  and  not  an  earthly  finger  had 
power  to  produce  a  discord.  Now  was  Ida  Ravelin  prepared 
for  the  world,  and  prepared  for  heaven;  for,  strangely  enough, 
both  require  the  same  preparation.  The  robe  that  can  be 
soiled  by  contact  with  things  below  is  not  the  one  to  glitter 
among  the  stars. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had  no  further  need 
of  beauty.  The  angel  which  had  always  been  shut  within 
her  bosom  came  out  and  hovered  round  her ;  and  men  sought, 
as  though  there  had  been  some  strange  witchery  there,  the 
shadow  of  its  wings.  The  touch  of  her  finger  thrilled ;  the 


240  IDA    RAVELIN. 

glance  of  her  eye  melted ;  the  sound  of  her  voice  enchanted. 
It  was  the  magnetism  of  genius.  Now  was  the  path  of  Ida 
Ravelin  strewed  with  flowers,  and  their  perfume  was  grateful 
to  her.  The  altar  of  her  glorious  nature  was  thronged  with 
worshippers,  and,  with  a  childlike  trustfulness,  Ida  gave  love 
for  what  seemed  love.  What  is  there  in  the  world  which 
God  has  made  to  look  upon  with  indifference  ?  What  in  the 
natures  God  has  moulded,  marred  and  soiled  though  they 
be  by  the  clay  they  are  prisoned  in,  to  regard  with  coldness  ? 
Oh,  a  brother's  heart,  however  pitiable  its  setting,  is  a  holy 
thing,  and  woe  be  to  the  foot  which  dares  to  rest  upon  it !  A 
brother's  hand !  it  may  be  stained,  but  there  is  a  pulse  in  it 
which  is  an  echo  to  the  stirrings  of  the  soul,  and  the  soul  is 
the  breath  of  God.  Who  dare  refuse  the  love-clasp  to  a  broth 
er's  hand  ? 

Ida  gave  love  for  love,  and  many  revelled  in  its  pure  sun 
light  ;  but  her  soul  had  an  inner  chamber,  a  veiled  temple,  to 
which  the  world  was  not  admitted.  It  was  the  trysting  place 
of  two  spirits  which  waited  to  keep  a  yet  holier  tryst  in  heaven. 

The  world  had  stepped  between  the  two  friends,  and  they 
could  meet  only  in  heart. 

There  were  grey  hairs  on  the  temples  of  Ida  Ravelin,  but 
the  flowers  were  yet  fresh  within,  and  still  fond  ones  gathered 
near  to  taste  their  perfume. 

Away  in  a  strange  land,  an  old  man  was  dying.  Tears 
wetted  his  pillow,  and  warm  lips  strove  with  kisses  to  melt 
the  gathering  ice  of  death.  Soft  fingers  lay  upon  his  temples, 
an  anxious  hand  pressed  against  his  heart,  trembling  as  its 
pulsations  grew  fainter,  and  mingled  voices,  made  sharp  with 
anguished  feeling,  went  up  to  heaven  most  pleadingly ;  but 
the  spirit  had  looked  over  the  bounds  of  time,  and  it  could  not 
be  won  back  again.  The  old  man  smiled,  tfnd  raised  an  eye 
to  heaven,  whispered  a  cherished  name,  and  died! 

Ida  Ravelin  sat  in  the  midst  of  a  wrapt  circle,  scattering 
her  buds  of  thought  and  feeling  with  a  lavish  hand.  Sud- 


IDA    RAVELIN.  241 

denly  that  veiled  inner  temple  was  strangely  illuminated.  A 
glorious  radiance  beamed  out  upon  her ;  meltingly  it  circled 
round,  bathing  all  within  with  bliss,  and  she  felt  the  enfolding 
clasp  of  wings  invisible.  Oh !  that  her  soul  should  remain 
the  longest  prisoner !  A  soft  whisper  stole  down  into  her 
heart,  and  its  answer  was  a  struggle.  She  must  be  free  !  A 
deep,  burning  brilliancy  sprang  to  her  eye  ;  the  crimson  gath 
ered  hurriedly  on  her  cheek ;  the  fevered  pulse  bounded  and 
staggered;  the  thousand  silver  chords,  which  had  kept  the 
heavenly  prisoner  so  long  in  its  earth-worn  cell,  stretched 
themselves  to  their  utmost  tension,  and  closed  over  it  with  a 
mad,  determined  energy,  then  snapped  asunder  and  shrivelled 
in  their  uselessness;  and  the  angel  planted  a  foot  upon  the 
shattered  fabric,  and,  raising  its  white  wings  heavenward,  rose 
from  the  earth,  never  to  return  again. 

They  made  a  sweet  pillow  among  flowers,  and  streams, 
and  beautiful  singing-birds,  and  laid  a  head  upon  it,  and  wept 
long  over  this  mouldering  image  of  clay.  But  the  stone  they 
reared  in  that  beautiful  valley  spoke  falsely.  Ida  Ravelin 
was  not  there ;  she  had  joined  the  loved  in  Paradise  ! 

VOL.  n.  21 


242 


TO  SPEING. 

A  WELCOME,  pretty  maiden ! 

Dainty-footed  spring ! 
Thou,  with  the  treasures  laden 

No  other  hand  can  bring. 
While  onward  thou  art  tripping, 
Children  all  around  are  skipping, 
And  the  low  brown  eaves  are  dripping 

With  the  giadsomest  of  tears. 

From  mossed  old  trees  are  bursting 

The  tiny  specks  of  green ; 
Long  have  their  pores  been  thirsting 

For  the  gushing  sap,  I  ween; 
With  scarce  a  shade  molesting, 
The  laughing  light  is  resting 
On  the  slender  group  that 's  cresting 

Yon  fresh,  green  hillock's  brow. 

At  the  timid  flower  it  glances, 

Beneath  the  maple's  shade  ; 
And  foiled,  it  lightly  dances 

With  the  bars  the  boughs  have  made  ; 
On  the  waters  of  the  river, 
Still  in  a  winter's  shiver, 
Its  golden  streamers  quiver, 

O'er-brimmed  with  lusty  life. 

The  folded  buds  are  blushing 

On  the  gnarled  apple-tree  ; 
While,  the  small  grass-blades  a-crushing, 

Children  gather  them  to  see ; 


TO    SPRING.  243 

And  the  bee,  thus  early  coming, 
All  around  the  clusters  humming, 
Upon  the  bland  air  thrumming, 
Plunges  to  the  nectared  sweets. 

Life,  life,  the  fields  is  flushing ! 

Joy  springs  up  from  the  ground ; 
And  joyous  strains  are  gushing 

From  the  woodland  all  around ; 
From  birds  on  wild  wings  wheeling, 
Up  from  the  cottage  stealing, 
From  the  full-voiced  woodman  pealing, 

Ring  out  the  tones  of  joy. 

Thrice  welcome,  pretty  maiden  ! 

With  thy  kiss  upon  my  cheek, 
Howe'er  with  care  o'erladen, 

Of  care  I  could  not  speak  ; 
Now,  I  '11  make  a  truce  with  sorrow, 
And  not  one  cloud  will  borrow 
From  the  dark,  unsunned  morrow , 

I  wih  be  a  child  with  thee. 


244 


THE   POETESS. 

AN   ALLEGORY. 

THERE  was  an  immense  lake  nestled  down  in  the  lap  of  a 
hilly  country,  and  fed  by  a  thousand  tributaries.  Among 
these  was  a  blithesome  little  sparkler,  which  oozed  up  through 
the  green  moss,  in  the  shadow  of  protecting  oaks  and  elm-trees, 
and  trickled  down  from  the  rocks,  at  the  foot  of  which  it 
gathered  up  its  forces  and  bounded  off,  dancing  and  laughing, 
to  its  destination.  The  genius  of  this  stream  was  a  dear  little 
innocent,  dwelling  in  an  amber  moss-cup  close  by,  and  loving 
most  truly  the  rosy  clouds  above  her,  and  the  green  earth  with 
its  jewel-work  of  flowers  and  dews  beneath.  And  she  was 
content  with  these  —  the  simple-souled  little  Undine!  But 
one  day,  a  luckless  day  perchance,  the  water-maiden  poised 
herself  upon  the  golden  rim  of  her  Sylvan  temple,  and  gazed 
earnestly  down  upon  the  lake,  which  lay  cradled  in  the  arch 
of  a  rainbow.  And  she  thought  within  herself  what  a  very 
nice  thing  it  would  be  just  to  deck  herself  in  the  jewels  she 
was  daily  pouring  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  and,  canopied 
by  that  bright  bow,  sing  to  the  multitudes  of  men  who  came 
down  to  drink  of  the  burnished  waters.  It  was  but  a  thought ; 
ai'.«  the  dear,  simple  little  Undine  was  on  her  way.  At  first 
she  was  intoxicated,  for  everything  was  new,  glowing,  glad 
some  ;  and  close  by  her  side  crept  one  who  whispered  sweet 
things  in  tones  deliciously  soft,  but  oh,  how  replete  with  false 
hood  !  The  sun  made  a  bright  path  for  her,  and  necked  her 
robe  with  gold ;  the  white-blossomed  wild  shrub  showered  its 
tribute  of  purity  and  perfume  on  her  feet ;  shadows  came  to 
kiss  her  dimpled  mouth ;  the  bird  wetted  its  gay  wings,  and 
then  turned  to  fan  her  face,  scattering  pearls  at  every  wave  ; 
and  the  love-eyed  deer  upon  the  marge  of  the  stream  bent  its 


THE    POETESS.  245 

arcned  neck,  but  forgot  to  drink,  because  she  was  there.  Oh, 
she  was  a  fresh,  happy  spirit,  singing  and  laughing  there  in 
the  wilderness,  loving  the  cool,  deep  shadows,  and  bearing 
always  on  her  breath  the  scent  of  violets !  A  fresh,  happy 
spirit  was  she  ; — what  a  pity  that  she  should  come  out  where 
she  must  barter  her  warm,  ingenuous,  beautiful  faith,  her 
simple  trustfulness,  and,  it  may  be,  her  love  and  truth,  for  the 
wisdom  which  makes  the  heart  barren  !  Never  was  a  journey 
more  delightful  than  that  of  our  bright-lipped  little  wanderer, 
until  she  emerged  from  the  path  down  the  hill-side ;  but  there 
she  began  to  meet  with  countless  annoyances,  and  she  wished 
herself  back  again,  nestling  in  her  golden  cradle  in  the  wil 
derness.  Other  water-spirits  were  there,  older  than  herself 
and  world-wise ;  and,  at  first,  they  looked  disdainfully  upon 
this  simple  child  of  the  hill.  But  when  they  observed  her 
brightness  and  singular  purity,  and  knew  that  she  would  be 
preferred  to  themselves,  they  suddenly  assumed  great  friend 
ship,  and  attempted  to  unite  the  waters  of  their  own  brooks 
with  hers;  and  crossed  and  re-crossed  her  little  thread  of 
silver,  making  so  many  provoking  entanglements,  that  the 
hitherto  care-free  spirit  grew  weary,  and  had  scarcely  the 
courage  to  pursue  her  way.  Still  she  went  on,  though  with 
constantly  increasing  difficulty,  till  at  last  she  reached  the 
border  of  the  lake.  But  at  every  foot  of  ground  she  passed 
over,  the  disenchanted  little  spirit  felt  her  enthusiasm  ebbing. 
The  meadow,  which  had  looked  so  green  and  velvety  in  the 
distance,  was  covered  with  a  coarse  stunted  grass,  half  faded  ; 
and  the  trees  were  diminutive  and  unshapely.  As  for  the 
flowers, — the  scentless  arum  grew  there,  and  the  blood-red 
cardinalis,  and  the  deadly  water  hemlock ;  and,  now  and  then, 
some  cold  blue  blossom  bent  its  poisoned  chalice  for  a 
draught,  and  the  ominous  nightshade  nodded  among  the  inter 
twisted  roots  of  the  cypress  at  a  little  distance.  Oh,  how  the 
little  spirit  sighed  when  she  thought  of  the  fragrant  dog-wood, 
the  meek-eyed  violets,  and  the  frail,  beautiful  tiarella  of  her 
native  wood !  There  were  serpents,  too,  by  the  lake-side, 
nestled  in  the  rank  sedges,  and  croaking  frogs,  half  beauty, 
VOL.  n. 


246  THE    POETESS. 

half  deformity,  and  a  thousand  other  things  which  made  our 
timid  little  Undine  look  with  deep  regret  upon  the  misty  curl 
of  blue  which  linked  her  mountain  home  with  the  clouds.  So 
she  wandered  in  a  strange  sadness  about  the  lake,  sometimes 
turning  from  the  barrier  raised  about  it  when  she  might  have 
passed,  and  sometimes  jostled  rudely  back  when  she  had  just 
resolved  to  cross,  till  at  last  a  strong,  kind  hand  was  extended 
to  her ;  she  trembled  for  a  moment  above  the  tide,  and  then 
dropped  down  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  How  bewildered 
was  she  there,  and  how  she  shivered  and  tried  to  smile,  and 
looked  all  about  her  to  find  some  compensation  for  the  dear 
things  she  had  left — the  awakened  little  dreamer  !  The  cold 
water-bath  had  spoiled  a  heaven  for  her. 

The  waters  of  the  lake  did  not  mingle  together.  There  lay 
the  turbid  alongside  the  clear  and  pure,  the  poisoned  flood 
and  the  stream  that  had  balm  in  it — there  was  every  variety 
in  the  great  lake,  and  men  might  come  and  drink  of  which 
they  chose  ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  mountain  rivulet  grew  almost 
happy  again,  when  she  saw  bright  lips  bent  to  her  own  waters, 
and  brightening  still  more  as  they  quaffed.  But  she  must 
have  been  an  angel  to  deem  this  sufficient  compensation  for 
the  thousand  vexatious  annoyances  which  no  unsophisticated 
water-spirit,  who  has  never  followed  her  rich  gifts  to  the  altar 
of  the  world,  can  understand.  And  our  darling  little  Undine 
was  not  quite  an  angel ;  and  might  become  less  angelic  still, 
by  standing  too  long  beneath  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  with  all 
her  jewels  on.  Haste,  haste  thee  back,  pretty  wanderer, 
before  the  breath  of  the  dark  hemlock  has  filled  thy  veins  with 
poison,  or  the  sun  kissed  the  peach-blossom  from  thy  cheek, 
or  the  wrangling  waters  made  thy  soft  voice  harsh  as  their 
own,  or  the  dank  night  has  mildewed  thy  heart.  Haste  thee 
back,  simple  Undine,  and  rest  thy  throbbing  head  close  in  the 
bosom  of  the  golden  moss-cup. 


247 


DORA*. 

EYES,  like  a  wet  violet,  nestled  among  a  profusion  of  the 
softest-hued  Persian  fringes,  and  hair,  gathered  from  the  elfin 
fields  of  Erin,  and  combed  and  twisted  into  waves  by  fairy 
fingers — such  had  Dora'!  Then  those  lips,  with  their  sad 
sweetness,  and  the  love-thought  in  each  corner  !  and  the  pale, 
polished  cheek,  and  vein-crossed  forehead  ! 

Sweet,  delicate  Dora' ! — much  do  I  fear,  that  such  a  vision 
of  loveliness  will  never  again  appear  at  Alderbrook. 

It  was  years  and  years  ago  that  Dora'  moved  among  our 
mothers  here,  with  a  step  like  a  fawn's,  a  head  erect  and 
earnest,  like  a  wild  deer  on  the  look-out  for  the  huntsman, 
and  a  face  full  of  half-joyous,  half-solemn  surprise,  such  as 
Eve  must  have  worn  when  her  foot  first  crushed  the  dews 
and  flowers  of  Eden.  Beautiful  was  Dora',  as  a  dream  which 
turns  from  the  daylight  to  nestle  in  some  young  heart,  or  a 
thought  that  refuses  to  syllable  itself  in  clumsy  words  ;  and 
yet,  beautiful  was  she  never  called  ;  but  all  paused  and  looked 
upon  her  as  she  passed  by,  and  smiled,  and  owned  a  stronger 
power,  though  they  knew  not  what  it  was,  than  that  of  beauty. 

Stand  by  me,  reader,  and  follow  the  direction  of  my  finger, 
over  the  bend  in  the  brook,  and  along  the  white  clover- 
field  to  the  foot  of  that  little  knoll  with  the  two  elm-trees  on 
its  crown.  Do  you  perceive  the  top  of  a  chimney  peeping 
from  the  green  things  piled  up  there,  like  a  monument  to  a 
Sylvan  ?  You  may  not  discover  it,  but  I,  who  have  looked 
so  many  times,  know  that  little  speck  of  reddish  brown  to  be 
a  chimney.  Well,  beneath  is  the  smallest  pattern  of  a  human 
shelter  that  your  eyes  ever  lighted  on ;  now  pretty  much  gone 
to  decay,  and  grown  entirely  over  with  moss  and  hop-vines. 
1  have  heard  that  a  white  rose-bush  once  quite  over-topped 


248 


DORA. 


the  front  corner,  and  sunflowers  innumerable  peeped  then 
yellow  heads  above  the  eaves  at  the  back ;  and  I  have  myself 
a  distinct  remembrance  of  stopping  to  admire  the  trumpet- 
honeysuckle,  that  years  ago  graced  the  door-way ;  but  not  a 
flowering  thing  opens  in  that  vicinity  now.  There,  all  alone, 
once  lived  Aunty  Evans ;  a  good,  gentle  old  woman,  who,  for 
the  want  of  better  things  to  love,  kept  always  about  her 
a  family  of  kittens,  chickens,  rabbits,  and  tame  pigeons. 
Besides  this,  she  used  to  make  gingerbread  for  the  little 
people  that  always  looked  in,  upon  their  way  from  school, 
and  supply  the  whole  village  with  sage,  rue,  and  chamomile, 
from  a  garden  that  would  have  been  no  wonder  in  Lilliput. 
Aunty  Evans  could  not  have  been  said  to  be  without  the 
means  of  living,  for  she  fed  herself,  and  not  unfrequently  her 
less  industrious  neighbors,  with  the  proceeds  of  her  busiest 
of  all  busy  needles.  One  day,  a  letter,  marked  on  the  out 
side,  "  in  haste,"  was  sent  her  from  the  village  post-office  ; 
and,  in  an  hour  after,  the  fire  was  extinguished  upon  her 
hearth,  the  latch-string  drawn,  and  Aunty  Evans,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  found  herself  in  the  stage-coach.  In  a  few 
days  she  returned  with  a  pale,  sad  little  girl,  all  in  black,  and 
was  invited  at  once  to  a  grand  tea-party,  for  curiosity's  sake. 
But  the  old  lady  had  only  a  short  story.  A  friend  had  died, 
and  bequeathed  her  an  only  child. 

"  Has  she  money  ?  "  asked  the  gossips. 

Aunty  Evans  said  "No;"  and  then  they  all  shook  their 
heads  and  looked  mysterious ;  and  somehow,  in  a  few  minutes, 
though  there  could  be  no  connection  between  it  and  the  other 
subject,  they  were  all  talking  about  the  new  and  excellent 
regulations  which  had  been  made  at  the  almshouse.  Aunty 
Evans  expressed  herself  very  glad  that  the  poor  children 
were  to  be  better  cared  for;  and  thereupon  sipped  her  tea 
without  further  concern.  That  subject  was  immediately 
abandoned,  and  the  conversation  took  an  unaccountable  turn, 
calculated  to  overthrow  entirely  the  doctrine  of  association,  for 
somebody  began  talking  about  the  price  of  plain  needlework. 
Most  of  the  ladies  were  of  the  opinion,  that  a  sempstress 


DORA'.  249 

could  no  more  than  support  herself  comfortably ;  and  if  by 
chance  she  did  accomplish  more  than  that,  it  was  her  "  boun- 
den  duty  "  to  lay  by  the  surplus  for  a  "  rainy  day."  Aunty 
Evans  appeared  to  listen  to  all  this  very  composedly ;  but,  in 
reality,  her  thoughts  were  a  little  absent.  She  was  planning 
the  number  of  shirts  she  should  be  obliged  to  make,  in  order 
to  send  the  little  orphan,  Dora',  to  the  best  school  in  the 
village. 

Dora'  was  sent  to  school;  and  forthwith,  the  pale  child 
became  as  great  a  favorite  as  Aunty  Evans  herself.  Dora's 
voice  had  a  tone  to  it,  like  the  stroke  of  a  silver  bell,  reaching 
us  through  a  medium  of  tears;  and  she  might  always  be 
found,  whether  under  the  cherry-tree,  at  the  back  of  the 
school-house,  or  nestled  in  a  rich  clover-bed,  or  seated  on  the 
spotted  alders  by  the  brook-side,  with  a  group  of  children 
about  her,  singing  the  little  songs  that  she  learned  of  Aunty 
Evans.  How  deliciously  sweet  was  that  voice  !  And  though 
the  words  could  claim  to  be  of  no  higher  order  than 

"  Little  bird,  with  bosom  red, 

Welcome  to  my  humble  shed  :" 
or, 

"  Pretty  bee,  busy  bee, 

If  you  'd  but  sing  to  me," 

many  a  stern  old  man  paused  to  listen,  and  many  a  business 
woman  raised  her  red  bandana  to  her  eyes,  as  those  clear, 
touching  tones  fell,  despite  the  crust  above  it,  on  her  heart. 
The  women  did  not  know  why  they  were  thus  affected ;  but 
Aunty  Evans  would  have  told  them  there  was  a  shadow 
within,  from  which  that  voice  stole  its  touch  of  sorrow,  and 
which,  later  in  the  day  of  her  life,  would  fall  back  upon  her 
heart. 

Aunty  Evans  might,  quite  unknown  to  those  about  her, 
have  been  a  prophetess  ;  but  Dora'  went  on,  year  after  year, 
singing  all  the  time  more  and  more  sweetly,  and  with  more 
touching  pathos,  while  the  shadow,  if  any  there  was,  must 
have  been  nearly  melted  by  the  neighboring  sunshine.  One 


50  DORA'. 

individual,  considering  himself  somewhat  wiser  than  his 
neighbors,  whispered  at  length  to  some  others,  that  the  pecu 
liarity  in  Dora'  Evans's  voice  was  the  despairing  plaint  of 
.prisoned  genius;  but  Alderbrook  had  no  citizen  mad  enough, 
even  though  all  had  credited  the  suggestion,  to  bind  the  child 
for  this  to  a  lot  of  splendid  misery.  Dora's  neighbors  knew 
little  of  raising  a  God-given  power  to  that  point  of  famous 
infamy  where  even  its  admirers  are  privileged  to  jest  about 
it;  —  they  were  common  men,  and  had  never  learned  that  it 
is  the  misfortune  of  genius  to  consume  itself  in  a  bonfire,  that 
others  may  be  amused  by  its  coruscations.  So  Dora'  went  on 
singing  every  Sabbath  in  the  village  choir,  singing  at  the  fire 
side  of  Aunty  Evans,  and  singing  at  the  social  gatherings  in 
the  village  ;  always  thankful,  and  rejoicing  that  she  had  a 
power  which  could  make  herself  and  everybody  else  so  happy. 
Thus  passed  year  after  year,  until  Dora'  was  fifteen ;  and  the 
shadow  had  as  yet  settled  on  neither  heart  nor  brow. 

Dora'  sat  upon  the  knoll  that  I  have  pointed  out  under  the 
two  elm-trees,  circled  by  a  row  of  young  faces,  all  turned 
earnestly  and  lovingly  to  hers. 

"  Sing  it  again,  Dora' !  do  !  do  !  just  once  again,  dear  !  it 
is  so  pretty !  "  went  the  pleading  round  ;  and  Dora'  smiled,  and 
began  to  sing. 

That  morning  a  stranger  had  reached  Alderbrook  by  the 
stage-coach.  He  was  a  small  man,  slightly  moulded ;  with 
eager  piercing  eyes,  two  wrinkles  passing  from  their  inner 
corners  half  way  up  the  forehead ;  an  aquiline  nose,  sallow 
cheeks,  and  thin  lips  always  pressed  closely  together.  Though 
he  could  scarcely  have  attained  the  middle  age,  he  was  slightly 
bald  ;  frequent  threads  of  silver  mingled  in  his  black  hair  and 
beard ;  and  upon  his  face  there  was  many  a  line,  the  work  of 
a  more  hasty  pencil  than  time  carries.  Just  at>  Dora'  com 
menced  her  song,  this  man  was  hurrying  along,  with  his  usual 
quick  step,  close  beside  the  fence.  As  the  first  strain  fell  on 
his  ear,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  cast  up  to  the  clouds,  and 
away  into  the  tree-tops,  a  glance  of  eager  inquiry.  Again  it 


DORA'.  251 

came,  and  again ;  and  a  smile  full  of  beautiful  deAght  broke 
over  the  listener's  compressed  lips,  and  a  fire  was  kindled  in 
the  centre  of  his  now  dilated  eye,  which  seemed  burning  back 
into  his  very  soul. 

"  Ha ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  his  glance  fell  upon  the  pretty 
group  cresting  the  green  knoll ;  and  then  he  crossed  his  arms 
upon  his  breast,  lowered  his  earnest  brows,  and  bent  his  ear 
to  listen. 

The  stranger  did  not  leave  Alderbrook  that  day ;  neither 
did  he  then  continue  his  walk ;  but,  returning  to  the  "  Sheaf 
and  Sickle,"  as  soon  as  the  little  party  beneath  the  elms  was 
broken  up,  he  possessed  himself  of  all  his  landlady  knew  con 
cerning  the  rustic  songstress. 

"  Such  a  voice  ! "  he  muttered,  as  he  strode  up  and  down 
the  piazza;  "  such  compass  !  such  delicacy !  such  pathos  !  she 
would  madden  them.  It  would  be  a  generous  deed,  too  — 
poor  orphan ! " 

He  passed  on,  his  steps  growing  every  moment  quicker  and 
his  eyes  more  eagerly  bright.  "  Ay,  ay !  I  will  do  it !  I 
cannot  leave  such  a  diamond  in  this  desert ! " 

That  night  the  artist  tapped  at  the  humble  door  of  Aunty 
Evans ;  and  drawing  his  chair  alongside  the  old  lady,  un 
folded  his  plans.  She  listened  coldly. 

"  The  child  is  well  with  her  mother — she  cannot  go." 

"  But  such  a  gift,  madam ! " 

"  A  gift  from  God !  it  is  a  sin  to  tamper  with  it." 

"  Ay,  from  God  !"  answered  the  artist  solemnly;  "it  is  a 
sin  to  leave  it  unimproved." 

An  hour  was  spent  in  fruitless  argument,  when  the  com 
poser  suddenly  inquired,  "  But  what  says  the  young  lady 
herself?  let  her  speak." 

"  Yes,  let  Dora'  answer,"  returned  Aunty  Evans,  trium 
phantly.  "  Thank  God !  I  may  trust  her !  what  say  you, 
my  child  ?  " 

"  What  sayest  thou,  gifted  one,  to  the  glorious  art  ?  " 

Dora's  face  was  buried  in  the  folds  of  muslin  that  hung 
about  the  little  window,  and  at  first  she  did  not  raise  it. 


252  DORA'. 

"  Speak  as  you  would  have  it,  darling,"  said  the  old  lady, 
softly,  drawing  near,  and  bending  over  her  idol. 

Such  dreams  as  had  been  swimming  in  the  young  girl's 
fancy  !  Such  a  consciousness  that  every  word  the  composer 
had  said  of  her  wondrous  power  was  true  !  Such  an  irre 
sistible  longing  to  give  utterance  to  an  undefinable  something 
that  she  had  always  felt  struggling  within  her !  How  could 
she  resist  it  ?  Dora'  loved  her  kind  foster-mother ;  but  now 
there  was  a  fever  at  her  heart  and  her  brain  was  in  a  whirl. 
She  raised  her  eyes.  How  changed  were  they !  the  soft, 
meek  dewiness  had  passed — they  had  grown  larger  and 
darker,  and  wore  an  intensity  of  meaning,  a  depth  of  feeling 
and  purpose,  that  made  them  strange  to  Aunty  Evans.  The 
love-thought  had  almost  vanished  from  the  corners  of  the 
mouth ;  the  lips  lay  apart  like  two  lines  of  burning  crimson, 
the  upper  drawn  up  and  knotted  in  the  middle,  and  a  spot  of 
bright  red  glowed  in  the  centre  of  each  pale  cheek.  Dora' 
did  not  speak.  It  needed  not  that  she  should. 

"  The  shadow  is  falling ! "  murmured  Aunty  Evans.  "  My 
poor,  poor  Dora' !  Oh,  I  have  had  a  fearful  watch ! " 

She  folded  the  child  in  her  arms,  kissed  her  hot  cheek, 
placed  her  hands  upon  her  throbbing  temples  ;  and,  saying  to 
the  composer,  "  She  will  go  with  you,"  motioned  him  to  leave 
them  alone. 

Aunty  Evans  was  not  so  ignorant  of  worldly  things,  as  to 
trust  her  precious  charge,  without  due  precaution,  to  the  keep 
ing  of  a  stranger.  She  possessed  herself  of  ample  knowledge 
concerning  the  character  and  standing  of  the  composer ;  and 
was  very  exacting  in  all  her  arrangements  for  the  child's  wel 
fare,  evincing  a  lynx-eyed  policy  that  she  had  never  been 
supposed  to  possess.  Above  all,  she  insisted  on  her  being 
allowed  to  return  to  her  humble  home  at  any  moment  she 
should  express  the  wish.  So  Dora'  went  away  from  Alder- 
brook,  and  Aunty  Evans  was  left  alone. 

Bright  Summer  passed  in  her  glory —^-melancholy  Autumn 
laid  a  worn  head  upon  the  bosom  of  Winter,  and  with  sighs 


DORA'.  253 

yielded  up  the  spirit — and  Winter  came  on  with  his  cold 
breath  and  blazonry  of  jewels.  Six  months  had  passed  away 
since  Dora'  sang  to  her  companions  on  the  knoll  beneath  the 
two  elm-trees.  Now  she  stood  in  a  luxuriously  furnished 
apartment,  the  soft  flaxen  ringlets  shading  her  delicate  throat 
as  of  yore,  but  with  little  else  to  mark  her  identity  with  the 
violet-eyed  child  that  had  sung  in  the  fields  at  Alderbrook. 
The  pale,  earnest  face  of  the  composer  looked  out  upon  her 
adimringly  from  a  pile  of  cushions  at  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment ;  and  she  was  aware  of  the  gaze,  and  seemed  bent 
on  gratifying  him,  for  her  small  hands  were  clasped  with  un 
wonted  energy,  and  determination  burned  in  her  cheek  and 
flashed  from  her  eye.  She  stood  near  a  piano  at  which  a 
stranger  was  seated ;  and,  after  his  fingers  had  passed  over 
the  keys,  her  voice  broke  forth  in  all  its  olden  melody.  But 
now  it  was  subject  to  her  control ;  now  she  knew  the  feeling 
that  she  would  express,  and  her  voice  became  but  the  wings 
to  bear  it  out.  The  prisoned  genius  had  found  utterance. 
Was  Dora'  happy  now  ?  Out  upon  such  simplicity !  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Was  she  not  about  to  entrance  a 
world  ?  What  blissful  emotions  would  creep  into  a  thousand 
hearts  at  listening  !  And  would  not  the  enchantress  find  an 
all-sufficient  reward  in  the  adulation  of  millions  ?  Ah  !  Dora', 
Dora' !  bend  thy  brow  to  the  halo !  tread  upon  the  roses  ! 
Never  think  how  the  first  may  darken ;  how  the  last  may 
shrivel  and  fall  away  from  the  sharp  thorns  beneath  them ! 
The  path  has  been  well  trodden  and  watered — pass  on  ! 

The  good  composer,  Dora's  friend,  was  dead. 

It  had  been  published  far  and  wide,  told  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  in  the  coffee-house ,  in  the  private  parlor  and  in  the 
public  saloon,  in  hall,  alley  and  shop,  lisped  in  the  boudoir 
and  cried  in  the  street — everywhere,  in  all  the  places  where 
the  virtuous  dwell  and  vicious  hide  themselves,  it  had  been 
told  that  a  new  star  had  arisen  in  the  musical  horizon ;  and 
those  who  would  never  care  for  the  artiste  on  account  of  her 

VOL.  n.  22 


254  DORA'. 

art,  were  told  that  she  was  young  and  beautiful.  What  a 
crowd  came  out  to  greet  the  first  appearance  of  our  star ! 
Should  she  not  have  felt  honored  ?  Lights  flashed,  jewels 
blazed,  plumes  waved  and  nodded,  smiles  sped  to  their  desti 
nation,  or  lost  themselves  upon  the  air,  and  all  —  for  her  ? 
Not  one,  not  one  !  Poor  Dora' !  even  in  her  triumph,  how 
desolate ! 

A  burst  of  applause  greeted  her  appearance;  and,  for  a 
moment,  her  heart  bounded,  and  her  eye  flashed  with  grati 
fied  ambition.  Then  rows  of  faces  gaped  upon  her  from  pit, 
box,  and  gallery ;  eyes  were  strained,  and  glasses  levelled, 
and  the  young  songstress  felt  the  warm  blood  mounting  has 
tily  to  her  forehead.  Poor  Dora' !  even  in  her  triumphs  how 
humiliated ! 

She  sang  as  she  had  ever  sung ;  for  genius  is  always  con 
scious  of  its  own  sacredness,  and  will  not  be  stared  down  by 
bold  impudence,  nor  raised  up  by  admiring  plaudits.  She 
sang,  and  garlands  fell  at  her  feet,  and,  all  night  long,  the 
applauses  of  that  multitude  rang,  like  the  idle  mockeries  that 
they  were,  in  her  ear.  Was  it  for  this  she  had  toiled,  and 
hoped,  and  given  her  better  nature  up  to  a  withering  ambition  ? 
Was  this  her  temple  in  the  clouds,  now  dissolving  in  its  own 
nothingness — a  thing  of  vapor,  bound  together  by  a  chain  of 
gilded  water-drops  ?  The  wings  were  melted,  and  Icarus  was 
fast  approaching  the  jJEgean.  What  a  blessing  that  mankind 
so  seldom  reach  the  goal  of  hope  !  The  chase  is  glorious  — 
in  empty,  unsatisfying  success  lies  the  curse. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  the  evening  on  which  Dora'  had 
resolved  to  turn  from  the  bosom  of  her  foster-mother  to  the 
world  which  was  beckoning  her.  A  light  was  burning  on  the 
white  pine  table,  and  beside  it  sat  Aunty  Evans,  her  Bible  on 
her  knees.  She  appeared  older,  nr\ch  older,  than  on  that 
night  twelve-month.  Thought  had  cut  strange  lines  upon  her 
face,  and  deepened  the  look  of  simple  good  nature,  once  so 
conspicuous  there,  to  one  of  earnest,  almost  painful  solicitude. 
The  door  was  open,  and  the  fragrance  from  the  honey-suckles 


DORA'.  255 

and  roses  stole  into  the  apartment ;  but  Aunty  Evans  thought 
not  a  word  of  the  honey-suckles  and  roses.     She  was  indulg 
ing  most  painful  reflections.     A  passing  figure  rustled  the 
vines,  a  shadow  fell  across   the   door-way,  and  a  light  foot 
pressed  the  threshold  ;  yet  Aunty  Evans  looked  not  up. 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  —  I  have  come  home  to  you  —  I  am 
sick,  I  am  weary  !  Give  me  a  place,  mother — a  place  to 
die!" 

There  were  sobbings  and  tears,  half  joyous,  half  heart 
broken,  in  the  little  cottage  that  night ;  and,  in  the  morning, 
all  the  villagers  gathered  to  look  upon  the  returned  idol.  How 
changed  !  Poor  Dora' !  it  is  needless  to  follow  thee  to  the 
grave.  The  spirit  that,  finding  food  nowhere  on  earth,  turns 
and  eats  into  itself,  can  endure  but  a  little  time  ;  and  we  will 
be  more  thankful  for  the  natural  light  that  again  beamed  in 
thine  eye,  and  the  natural  feeling  that  slumbered  about  thy 
lips,  than  sorry  for  thine  early  loss.  Thy  rest  is  among  the 
flowers,  where  the  bees  steal  their  sweets,  and  the  birds 
spread  their  wings  to  the  sunlight. 

Sleepest  thou  not  passing  well,  young  Dora'  ? 


256 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

"Disciple.     When  the  soul  sinks  to  earth  and  its  wings  fall  away,  how  may 

they  be  restored  again  ? 

Zoroaster.     By  sprinkling  them  with  the  Waters  of  Life. 
Disciple.     But  where  are  those  Avaters  to  be  found  ? 
Zoroaster.    In  the  Garden  of  God." 

I  HAD  been  poring  over  some  of  the  half  beautiful,  half 
ridiculous  fictions  of  the  Oriental  theologians,  startled  every 
now  and  then  to  find  a  real  diamond  gleaming  up  from  the 
mystic  rubbish  of  darkened  genius,  and  saddened  by  learning 
how  very  near  the  truth  some  few  had  groped,  while  they 
had  gone  down  to  the  grave  without  having  discovered  one 
ray  of  its  pure  light. 

Gray  shadows  were  falling  upon  Strawberry  Hill,  when  I 
closed  the  book  and  leaned  from  the  window,  thinking,  as  I 
marked  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  some  five  summers  crossing  the 
log  bridge,  how  would  the  mighty  Zoroaster  have  been  rejoiced 
to  receive  the  key  to  truth  now  in  the  keeping  of  even  that 
little  child.  The  shadows  lengthened  and  grew  dimmer  as  I 
watched,  the  twilight  deepened,  and  my  thoughts  took  on  the 
same  mistiness ;  the  Persian  allegories,  the  Rabbinical  fictions, 
and  the  sublime  doctrines  of  the  Chaldeans  became  strangely 
mingled  in  my  dreaminess ;  and  hill,  stream  and  meadow 
faded  from  my  closing  eyes,  as  a  new  scene  opened  upon  them. 
I  was  at  once  transported  to  one  of  the  innermost  recesses  of 
a  solemn  and  hoary  forest,  which  I  believed  had  slumbered 
for  centuries  among  its  own  undisturbed  shadows,  untrodden 
by  the  foot  of  man.  But  even  as  I  stood  wondering  in  the 
midst  of  this  magnificent  loneliness.  I  heard  a  voice  in  plain 
tive  sadness  exclaim,  "  How  long !  how  long ! "  and  I  at  once 
recognized  the  presence  of  one  of  those  fallen  angels  described 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  257 

by  the  Rabbins.  He  had  stood  upon  the  heights  of  heaven, 
When  "earth  was  a  gloomy  mass  of  darkness ;  he  had  seen  "  the 
Spirit  of  God  move  upon  the  face  of  the  waters,"  and  he  had 
joined  the  music  of  the  stars,  when  this  beautiful  globe  sprung 
to  life  and  light.  He  had  nestled  in  the  trees  of  Eden,  and 
dipped  his  wing  in  the  waters  of  the  Euphrates ;  but  he  had 
sinned,  alas  !  and  those  beautiful  wings  had  fallen  away.  And 
when  I  saw  a  fair  fragile  creature  by  his  side,  that  I  knew  had 
trod  the  earth  for  centuries,  though  there  was  less  than  the 
weight  of  twenty  summers  on  her  clear  brow,  I  read  his  sin 
and  its  punishment.  For  her  sake  his  wings  had  fallen,  and 
with  her  he  must  wander,  a  pilgrim  upon  the  earth,  until  the 
end  of  time.  For  years  and  years  they  had  made  their  home 
among  men  —  for  years  and  years  listened  to  the  melodies  of 
the  rich  voiced  bul-bul  as  he  warbled  from  the  rose-trees  of 
voluptuous  Cashmere ;  drunk  the  perfume  from  Persian  groves, 
and  wandered  in  the  romantic  valleys  of  the  Nile ;  but  though 
they  grew  not  weary  of  beauty,  there  was  that  in  the  hearts 
of  men  and  in  their  acts  which  made  them  sad.  So  the  angel 
and  his  bride  wandered  away  to  darker,  sterner  regions.  They 
climbed  the  icy  peaks  of  the  rugged  Altai,  slept  beneath  the 
hardy  evergreen  of  Siberia,  and  braved,  hand  in  hand,  the 
winds  which  howled  along  the  dreary  plains  of  Kamschatka. 
And  still  they  wandered  on,  till  Zillah  and  her  angel  were  the 
first  to  leave  their  footprints  on  the  soil  of  the  New  World. 
They  had  since  seen  nation  after  nation  grow  up  and  wither ; 
they  had  seen  gay  cities  built,  and  again  brave  old  trees  grow 
ing  over  them  ;  —  change,  change  came  everywhere,  but  not 
to  them.  At  last,  another  race  had  claimed  the  soil  and  by 
might  possessed  it.  The  hearts  of  the  angel  and  his  bride 
sickened  at  wrong  and  carnage ;  and  it  was  then  that  they 
plunged  into  the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  and  made  them  a 
home  in  its  solitary  depths. 

An  hour-glass  had  just  been  turned,  and  the  angel  bent 
thoughtfully  over  it,  watching  the  glittering  sands  as  they 
dropped,  one  by  one,  into  the  empty  glass  below.  Beside  him 
reclined,  like  Eve  in  the  original  Eden,  a  beautiful  woman. 

VOL,   IT,  22* 


258  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

A  heavy  grape-vine  overshadowed  her ;  and  underneath,  and 
by  her  side,  bloomed  gorgeous  flowers  of  every  hue,  all  matted 
into  the  luxurious  green.  The  hand  of  improvement  had  not 
yet  wrested  from  the  wilderness  its  treasures.  Her  soul-full 
eye,  with  even  more  of  tenderness  than  thought  in  it,  rested 
lovingly  upon  the  angel. 

"  That  we  should  measure  hours,  my  Zillah,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  like  children  of  a  broken  day !  we  whose  seconds 
are  marked  to  us  by  the  seasons,  and  whose  minutes  are  cen 
turies  ? " 

"  And  is  there  no  change  yet  upon  the  dial-plate?" 

"  None.  When  I  spent  a  thousand  years  and  all  my  skill 
upon  this  dial,  I  little  thought  that  cycle  after  cycle  would 
pass  —  cycle  after  cycle  —  years  wither  and  go  to  their  graves, 
and  young  years  spring  up  bearing  with  them  new  germs  of 
life,  and  still  not  a  shadow  come  to  tell  us  that  the  evening  of 
our  long,  long  day  was  nearer  than  at  its  morning." 

"  And  the  other  signs,  in  the  heavens  and  on  the  earth,  and 
among  men.  Are  there  no  way-marks  yet  discoverable  ?  noth 
ing  to  say  how  long  ere  this  sweet,  sad  journey  will  be  ended, 
and  my  angel  shall  have  the  wings  again,  which  he  lost  for 
me?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  sweet  journey,  Zillah ;  though  so,  so  long ! 
There  was  unfathomable  mercy  in  the  punishment  awarded 
me,  in  that  thou  wert  left ;  and  cheerfully  we  will  bide  our 
time." 

Long  and  wistfully  had  the  fallen  angel  watched  for  some 
sign  of  the  earth's  dissolution ;  but  yet  his  only  remark  was, 
"  We  will  bide  our  time."  He  had  looked  for  the  stars  to  pale ; 
but  still  they  burned  on  with  the  same  unchanging  radiance 
as  when  first  the  band  of  seraphim  went  forth  to  light  their 
fires ;  he  had  watched  cloud  after  cloud  thickening  and  dis 
solving  in  the  heavens,  almost  expecting  to  see  in  their  end 
less  transformation  a  form  which  he  yet  believed  he  should 
recognize,  step  from  their  soft  folds.  But  there  had  been  no 
change  in  these,  save  as  they  obeyed  the  biddings  of  the  wind, 
since  from  the  walls  of  the  upper  Paradise  he  looked  down  on 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  259 

their  first  fresh  loveliness.  There  had  been  no  sign  in  heaven, 
and  none,  none  on  earth.  What  mark  of  age  was  there  in 
the  strong-limbed  giants  of  the  wood,  that  stood  cloud-capt 
around  his  bower  in  the  wilderness  ?  Life,  life  was  every 
where.  Everything,  even  death  itself,  teemed  with  it ;  for, 
if  but  a  flower  closed  its  young  eye,  and  turned  earthward 
withering,  flowers  innumerable  sprang  up  where  it  stood ;  and 
so  the  mighty  destroyer  became  the  parent  of  beauty  and 
bloom.  The  earth  had  never  reeled  nor  paused  for  a  single 
moment  in  its  bright  circuit  among  the  stars;  but  on,  on, 
beautifully  and  quietly  she  moved,  like  a  bird  from  Paradise 
flown  by  the  hand  of  the  Eternal.  The  angel  had  watched 
her  in  his  unvarying  round,  and  though  his  eye  had  become 
dimmed  by  the  atmosphere  of  earth,  he  could  yet  see  deep 
into  the  mysteries  above  him.  He  knew  much,  very  much 
ofjthe  heaven-lore  which  God  has  written  oh  the  stars;  but 
jet  the  weakness  of  his  vision  was  painful  to  him,  and  he 
longed  for  the  day  when  his  mind  could  span  the  universe  as 
at  its  creation.  He  knew  where  the  pelican  brooded  on  her 
rocky  desert  nest,  and  saw  in  the  red  blood  drunk  by  her 
children  from  her  willing  breast  but  another  type  of  that  which 
has  its  types  everywhere.  He  had  followed  the  eagle  in  the 
eye  of  the  sun,  and  knew  the  language  of  his  scream,  the 
thought  which  prompted  every  movement  of  his  strong  pinion, 
arid  the  dreams  that  hovered  over  him  in  the  cloud-capt  couch 
he  had  builded  on  the  crag.  He  had  seen  the  wing  of  the 
bird  grow  heavy  beneath  the  weight  of  centuries ;  and  when 
at  last  it  drooped  and  faltered,  he  knew  the  secret  which  cost 
the  adventurous  Spaniard  a  life — the  fountain  where  it  went 
to  lave  and  grow  young  again.  He  had  bent  his  ear  to  the 
flower  and  listened  to  its  whisperings ;  the  foot-falls  of  the 
evening  dew  were  familiar  to  him ;  and  not  a  drop  of  water 
had  a  tinkle,  not  a  leaf  a  murmur,  and  not  a  bird  a  song,  the 
language  of  which  he  had  not  interpreted  to  his  still  youthful 
bride,  the  gentle  Zillah.  But  the  flower  whispered  of  Life  ; 
the  dew  brought  a  life-draught  in  every  tiny  globule ;  and  the 
gushing  water,  and  the  fresh-lipped  leaves,  and  the  mellow- 


260  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

throated  birds,  and  the  wandering  breeze,  all  joined  in  a  chorus 
which  brought  sadness  to  the  spirit  of  the  angel.  It  was  all 
LIFE  !  LIFE  !  but  it  was  that  life  which  bears  somewhere  in  it 
the  seeds  of  dissolution  ;  not  a  blossom  from  the  tree  guarded 
by  the  flaming  sword  of  cherubim. 

"Are  there  no  way-marks?"  repeated  Zillah.  "It  is  long 
since  we  grew  sick  of  the  glitter  and  falsehood  about  us,  and 
so  turned  to  the  delicious  stillness  of  this  quiet  wilderness  — 
very  long,  my  angel.  Let  us  go  back  again.  Perhaps  we 
may  find  a  faint  shadowing  of  what  we  seek  in  the  actions  of 
men  —  in  their  virtue,  their  wisdom,  or  possibly  their  vices. 
It  may  be  that  His  handiwork  shall  never  fail;  that  the  earth 
and  the  heavens  are  immutable ;  and  that  we  are  to  be  free 
when  my  poor  fallen  brethren  have  received  back  upon  their 
bosoms  the  marred  image  which  he  first  left  there,  or  when 
their  continued  sins  have  worn  away  its  slightest  traces.  It 
may  be  that  by  wisdom  they  will  gain  a  spirit-mastery,  and  so 
drop  the  cumbering  clay  and  its  defilements  together,  and  then 
thou  mayst  return  to  thy  home  and  take  thy  Zillah  with  thee. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  look  upon  the  work  of  mortals,  and  see  if 
they  are  not  writing  their  own  destiny  with  their  own  hands." 

The  angel  was  persuaded,  and  hand  in  hand  the  twain  went 
forth  upon  their  pilgrimage. 

The  vision  changed,  and  I  again  met  the  wanderers  in  a 
great  city.  A  noisy  rabble  filled  the  streets,  and  the  hoarse 
laugh  and  ribald  jest  passed  freely  as  they  hurried  on.  Zillah 
shrank  from  their  infectious  touch,  and  as  she  did  so,  I  heard 
the  angel  whisper,  "  It  could  not  have  been  worse  in  the  an 
cient  cities  which  HE  destroyed  by  fire."  But  every  minute 
the  crowd  became  more  dense,  and  as  the  multitude  pressed 
in  one  direction,  the  pilgrims  turned  their  heads  and  suffered 
themselves  to  be  borne  onward  by  it.  It  stopped  beneath  a 
scaffold,  and  the  two  strange  spectators  cast  upon  each  other 
inquiring  glances. 

"  It  is  some  rnerry-making  for  the  rude  populace,"  at  last  the 
angel  remarked,  "  and  lo !  yonder  comes  the  harlequin." 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  261 

"  Then  he  mimics  woe,"  said  Zillah,  "  for  he  seems  in  an 
agony  of  suffering." 

In  an  agony  of  suffering  indeed  was  the  wretched  criminal, 
as  he  crawled  rather  than  walked  across  the  scaffold,  wringing 
his  hands  and  uttering  low,  half-stifled  sobs  which  could  not  be 
mistaken. 

"  It  is  no  jest,"  said  the  angel,  "  and  yet  these  men  come  as 
merrily  as  to  a  nuptial  banquet.  Can  it  be  that  these  poor 
creatures  of  a  day  find  food  for  mirth  in  a  brother's  suffering  ? " 

"  See  !  What  are  they  doing  with  him  ? "  exclaimed  Zillah 
jn  alarm. 

The  arms  were  pinioned,  the  cap  was  drawn  upon  the  head, 
and  the  executioner  proceeded  to  adjust  the  cord. 

"  It  —  it  is  a  scene  unfit  for  us !"  said  the  angel  shuddering, 
and  averting  his  eyes  with  horror. 

A  minute  after  there  was  a  movement  in  the  crowd  which 
made  a  sound  like  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  sea ;  and  the 
laugh  and  jest  went  round  as  before,  while  the  soul  of  a  man, 
a  brother,  was  passing,  with  all  the  blackness  of  its  fearful  guilt 
upon  it,  into  the  fathomless  future,  and  the  presence  of  the 
Judge.  Poor  Zillah  trembled  like  the  lightly  poised  hare-bell 
in  a  storm ;  there  was  a  startled  glance  in  her  soft  eye,  her 
cheek  became  blanched,  and  her  tongue  faltered  as  she  ex 
claimed, 

"  What  can  it  mean  ?  Have  they  taken  away  his  life,  the 
little  span  which  notwithstanding  its  briefness  men  love  better 
than  their  souls  ?  " 

"Ay,  my  Zillah  —  his  life  !  The  frail  bark  has  been  cut 
from  its  moorings  to  drift  away  upon  the  unknown  ocean,  by 
hands  which  even  to-morrow  will  strive  to  cling  to  this  cold 
shore  and  strive  in  vain.  But  this  is  not  a  fitting  scene  for 
thine  eyes  to  look  upon,  my  bright  bird  of  the  sunshine,  — 
nor  mine  —  nor  mine  ! "  he  added  in  a  low  murmur.  "  Oh  ! 
for  my  lost,  earth-bartered  wings  ! " 

"  Bartered  forme,"  returned  Zillah,  in  a  tone  no  louder  than 
her  breath,  but  fraught  with  an  exquisitely  sad  melody. 


262  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

The  angel  answered  only  with  a  look,  but  it  brought  a  tint 
to  her  cheek  and  a  beautiful  light  to  her  eye. 

"  And  this  is  murder,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

"  No ;  not  murder,  but  the  terrible  punishment  of  a  terrible 
crime.  When  thy  race,  my  poor  Zillah,  lost  every  trace  of 
the  image  they  first  bore,  and  turned  against  each  other  like 
the  wolves  and  tigers  of  the  wilderness,  the  GREAT  ONE  passed 
a  decree  that  blood  alone  should  wash  away  the  stain  of  hu 
man  blood  ;  and  this  man's  hand  was  red  with  that  which  had 
flowed  in  the  veins  of  his  brother." 

"  Ah  !  the  multitude  should  have  veiled  themselves  in  sack 
cloth,  and  sprinkled  the  gray  ashes  upon  the  floors  of  their 
dwellings,"  said  Zillah,  her  lip  growing  still  paler,  and  quiv 
ering  with  horror.  "  The  entire  people  should  have  thronged 
the  altar.  Mourn,  mourn,  ye  proud  nation  !  It  is  the  son  of 
"your  bosom  whose  baseness  has  required  this  terrible  deed  at 

(your  hands ;  and  He  alone  who  '  rideth  upon  the  wings  of  the 
wind,'  whose  'pavilion  is  in  the  secret  place,'  knows  how  far 
\  the  infection  has  spread.  Alas !  my  race !  my  poor,  degraded, 
ruined  race  ! " 

"  This  sad  spectacle  must  needs  beget  sad  feelings,"  returned 
the  angel,  "  and  yet  the  thoughtless  crowd  make  merry  as  at 
a  bridal ;  and  those  who  come  not  here  to  regale  their  eyes 
with  the  sufferings  of  a  brother,  pass  carelessly  on,  chaffer  in 
the  market-place,  pore  over  the  page,  obey  the  beck  of  pleas 
ure,  and  forget  that  another  black,  black  seal  is  added  to  the 
degradation  of  man.  Ah,  my  Zillah,  the  end  is  afar  off.  I 
catch  no  glimpse  of  the  living  waters ;  my  sight  grows  dim  in 
this  darkness,  and  my  foot  is  heavy,  very  heavy." 

"  Look ! "  exclaimed  Zillah,  "  the  dead  man  is  lowered  to  his 
coffin,  and  they  all  throng  to  look  at  him ;  see  how  they  jostle 
each  other ! " 

"  Ay ;  and  still  they  laugh  and  jest '  The  red  drop  is  at 
the  heart  of  every  one  of  them ;  and  they  are  now  gorging 
the  fiendish  principle  with  blood  which  they  dare  not  shed. 
Let  us  hence." 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  263 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  angel  and  his  companion 
extricated  themselves  from  the  brutal  multitude  —  men  who, 
seeming  to  snuff  blood  afar  off,  flock  to  see  the  spark  of  life 
extinguished  on  the  heart's  altar,  and  can  be  kept  back  only 
by  high  prison  walls  or  the  glitter  of  the  bayonet.  But  at 
length  they  were  free,  and  hastily  did  they  move  away  from 
the  scene  of  retribution  and  cruelty. 

"  Alas  !  for  thy  lost  wings,  my  angel,"  sighed  Zillah,  when 
the  frightful  din  had  died  away  upon  the  ear. 

^_The  Waters  of  Life  aTe  not  here,"  was  the  sorrowful 
.rjeply.r~"  not  here  in  the  midst  of  cruelty  and  blood  ;  the  heart    , 
of  man  is  no  better  than  at  the  beginning,  and  —  it  is  no  worse. 
The  doom  is  not  yet  written,  the  book  of  good  and  evil  is  not 
yet  sealed  —  how  long  !  how  long  ! " 

Another  crowd  now  obstructed  the  way,  swarming  to  an 
immense  edifice,  some  eager,  some  careless  —  tradesmen  talk 
ing  of  the  common  business  of  the  day,  lawyers  mooting  dubi 
ous  points  in  wrangling  tones,  though  usually  with  courteous 
words,  boys  with  shrill  voices  hawking  their  various  wares, 
and  the  rabble,  as  ever,  jesting,  laughing  and  jostling.  Among 
the  crowd  were  two  persons  discussing  the  execution  of  that 
morning. 

"  They  hurry  the  poor  wretch  into  eternity  unprepared,  as 
though  he  were  a  dog  or  an  ox !  It  is  barbarous  ! "  said  one. 

"  A  relic  of  the  dark  ages,"  observed  his  companion ;  "  neces 
sary  in  the  infancy  of  time,  when  men  were  like  the  beasts  of 
the  field,  and  could  be  restrained  only  by  the  strong  arm,  but 
that  philanthropic  and  enlightened  statesmen  of  the  nineteenth 
century"  — 

His  voice  was  lost  to  the  ear  of  the  angel,  who  had  pressed 
on  eagerly  to  catch  the  sound ;  for  after  what  he  had  beheld 
that  morning,  the  knowledge  that  the  whole  human  race  was 
not  intent  on  blood  was  grateful  to  him. 

"Those  men  have  pity  —  let  us  follow  them,"  he  said  to 
Zillah. 

"  But  they  pity  only  the  red  hand,"  was  the  reply;  "  they 


264  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

said  nothing  of  the  bloody  shroud,  and  the  desolate  hearth 
stone." 

The  two  pilgrims  pressed  forward  and  entered  at  the  door 
of  a  spacious  apartment  which  was  crowded  to  overflowing. 
A  row  of  venerable  persons  occupied  cushioned  seats  raised  on 
a  kind  of  dais  at  the  extremity  of  a  large  room.  On  one  side 
of  these  sat  twelve  men  in  busy  conference,  and  on  the  other, 
a  goodly  number  lolled  over  tables  covered  with  green  baize 
cloth,  some  yawning,  and  others  biting  the  ends  of  their  feather 
pens  or  fastening  and  unfastening  them  behind  their  ears.  Two 
dark  faces  glowered  on  each  other  immediately  below  the 
cushioned  seats ;  and  lower  still,  in  a  small  square  box,  a  per 
son  leaned  forward,  balancing  on  his  elbows,  and  now  prying 
into  one  face,  and  now  another,  with  eyes  which  the  angel 
trembled  but  to  look  upon.  At  last,  the  twelve  men  rose,  and 
a  silence  as  of  death  brooded  over  that  vast  multitude.  A 
question  was  asked  by  a  mild  gray-haired  man  from  the  dais, 
and  a  deep,  heavy  voice  resounded  throughout  the  hall  of  jus 
tice,  "  NOT  GUILTY."  The  crowd  caught  the  sound,  and  peal 
on  peal  arose  the  deafening  plaudits,  the  arched  roof  ringing 
back  the  sound,  pausing  to  catch  it  again,  and  then  replying, 
as  though  it  had  been  a  living  voice  answering  from  above. 

"  This  is  a  proud  triumph,"  said  a  voice  beside  the  pil 
grims. 

"  An  innocent  man,  victim  to  some  accident  or  slanderous 
tongue,  doubtless,"  returned  the  angel. 

"  No,  no  ;  a  greater  scoundrel  never  trod  the  soil;  never." 

"  But  he  is  innocent  of  this  crime." 

"  He  is  guilty,  stranger,  guilty ;  everything  has  conspired 
to  prove  it,  and  not  a  man  in  this  room  but  is  morally  con 
vinced  of  the  fact." 

"  How,  then,  has  he  escaped  ?  " 

"  By  the  help  of  yon  lawyer's  quibbles." 

"  A  partaker  of  his  crimes,  I  suppose,"  remarked  the  angel. 

"He,  a  partaker  of  his  crimes  !  he,  the  most  honorable  lawyer 
in  the  nation." 

"I  am  a  stranger,"  remarked  the  angel,  apologetically; 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  265 

"arid  I  would  fain  knowwhy  this  honorable  man  soils  his  soul 
for  the  sake  of  the  guilty,  and  why  you  and  all  this  multitude 
rejoice  to  see  crime  go  out  from  your  midst  free  to  gather 
about  itself  still  more  filth  and  blackness." 

"  We  rejoice  in  the  exercise  of  mercy,"  returned  the 
stranger. 

"  (  Shall  man  then  dare  to  shiver 

The  mystic  golden  bowl  ? 
Send  back  unto  its  Giver 

The  God-born  deathless  soul  ? 
Shall  he  the  frail  spark  smother, 

All  earth  cannot  re-light  '.' 
His  weak,  sin-heavy  brother 

Cast  from  his  holier  right  ?' 

"  No,  no  !  we  are  enlightened  people,  and  the  law  of  blood 
is  distasteful  to  us." 

"  Is  then  the  law  abolished  among  you  ?  "  inquired  the  angel, 
somewhat  anxiously. 

"  Not  abolished  ;  there  are  wolves  and  tigers  still  in  the  land 
and  they  cry  for  vengeance  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  mercy. 

"  '  Ay,  from  earth  the  blood-stained  banish, 

Snatch  away  his  little  time  ? 
'T  is  noble  sure  to  punish 

By  copying  the  crime  ! 
Heap  the  sods  upon  his  breast, 

Crush  him  down  in  all  his  sin  !  '  — 


to  sucn  a  blood-thirsty  spirit  !  Thank  God, 
however,  that  the  murderous  iron  rule  is  gradually  yielding  to 
the  voice  of  mercy,  and  the  law  of  love  is  prevailing.  '  God 
IsToyeY'  " 

"  God  is  just!"  echoed  the  angel,  as  he  turned  to  depart. 

"  They  disobey  the  express  command  of  the  Almighty,  given 
before  the  framing  of  the  nations,"  said  Zillah,  "  and  bring  an 
attribute  of  his  own  holy  character  as  an  excuse." 

"  Their  justice  is  cruel  and  heartless,"  answered  the  angel, 
"  and  their  mercy  is  weak  and  wicked.  Love  and  justice  wait 
hand  in  hand  before  the  Great  White  Throne  ;  but  these  men 
cannot  link  them  together,  for  their  eyes  are  darkened,  and 

VOL.  ii.  23 


266  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

heavy  clouds  are  gathered  about  their  souls.  We  need  not 
search  further,  Zillah." 

"  Nay,  a  little  longer  —  a  little  longer,"  pleaded  the  soft 
voice;  "perchance  they  have  a  treasure,  a  talisman,  a  seed 
of  good  which  we  have  not  yet  discovered.  I  feel  that  this 
distorted  law  of  love  has  grown  out  of  a  holy  principle  which 
may  even  now  be  swelling  and  bursting  from  the  rubbish.  I 
will  follow  thee  no  longer,  my  angel,  for  my  heart  is  sick  and 
my  foot  weary ;  but  tread  thou  these  fearful  paths,  search  thou 
for  the  hidden  fountain,  and  when  thou  hast  gained  a  sprink 
ling  of  its  waters,  fly  to  me  and  tell  me  time  has  ended.  It  is 
here,  it  is  somewhere  here.  I  feel  its  life-giving  presence." 

For  many  days  and  nights  the  angel  wandered  in  dark  dens 
of  wickedness,  his  purer  nature  quivering  and  shrinking  at  the 
sounds  of  blasphemy.  His  foot  followed  in  the  track  of  the 
crouching,  prowling  assassin ;  his  ear  listened  to  the  voice  of 
the  midnight  robber;  the  thief  brushed  him  as  he  crossed  his 
path,  and  the  vile,  the  polluted  of  every  grade  passed  before 
his  eyes  like  so  many  demons  of  the  pit.  The  air  grew  heavy 
with  sin,  and  clogged  his  breath ;  his  frame  drooped,  for  there 
was  a  weight  upon  it  far  heavier  than  fatigue  could  cast ; 
even  the  rays  of  the  sun  struggled  and  grew  ghastly  in  such 
pollution,  and  the  stars  seemed  red  and  bleared. 

Then  he  turned  to  brighter  scenes,  scenes  on  which  the  sun 
dared  shine,  not  indeed  in  his  first  purity,  clear  and  soft  like 
the  light  of  Paradise,  but  with  a  wild  brilliance,  which,  while 
it  dazzled  the  eyes,  and  withered  the  young  plants  that  the 
dews  neglected  to  visit,  bore  yet  a  fair  promise  of  seed-time 
and  harvest,  day  and  night,  to  the  hearts  of  men. 

But  even  here  was  the  villain's  heart  mantled  in  hypocrisy, 
here  prowled  the  disguised  wolf,  here  towered  the  beautiful 
marble  above  reeking  bones  and  the  foul  mould  of  Death.  In 
this  brave  light  Revenge  stalked  up  and  down,  an  honorable 
and  an  honored  guest.  Here  Avarice  spread  a  yellow  crust 
upon  the  heart,  which  burned  in,  and  seared,  and  grew  thicker, 
and  gnawed  at  every  chord  that  might  have  sounded  a  tuneful 
cadence,  still  increased  in  thickness  till  there  was  no  power  to 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  267 

resist  it  from  within;  and  then  from  the  fearful  gangrene 
sprang  a  brood  of  crimes,  all  veiled  indeed,  all  proper  and  legal, 
which  made  the  angel  recoil  as  from  the  less  refined,  but  scarce 
blacker  ones  that  swarmed  the  dens  he  had  left.  Here  too 
lurked  fair  Envy  smiling  and  flattering,  until  she  could  place 
her  foot  upon  the  victim's  head,  and  then  down  !  crush  !  crush  ! 
—  no  pity,  no  remorse.  Nay  ;  why  should  mortal  head  dare 
rise  higher  than  hers  !  Among  flowers  of  the  richest  fragrance 
and  brightest  hue  coiled  Scandal,  and  when  her  serpent  hiss 
rose  upon  the  air,  the  flowers  drooped,  and  their  perfume  was 
mingled  with  her  noisome  breath. 

"It  is  all  in  vain  —  all  in  vain!"  sighed  the  angel,  as  he 
returned  again  to  his  companion.  "  The  heart  of  man  remains 
the  same  as  when  this  now  degraded  hand  wielded  the  sword 
which  guarded  the  gate  of  Eden ;  dark  thoughts,  violent  pas 
sions,  wicked  imaginings  all  lurk  within  him,  all  are  fostered 
and  cherished  in  his  bosom.  And  yet,  my  Zillah,  there  is 
something,  or  the  foreshadowing  of  something  —  a  veiled  star, 
a  pale  light  fringing  the  cloud,  a  low  murmur  as  from  the 
concealed  fountain,  a  breath  of  pure  air  ever  and  anon  stirring 
the  seared  leaves,  and  passing  over  the  pulses  of  my  soul. 
There  is  something,  Zillah,  which  had  well  nigh  made  me  hear ' 
the  rustle  of  my  own  wings,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  Paradise./ 
I  cannot  tell  what  it  is,  but  I  feel  it —  I  feel  it." 

"  Even  so  do  I,"  returned  the  fair  Zillah,  "  and  for  that  was 
it  that  I  chose  this  spot.  I  have  builded  me  an  altar,  and 
.here,  my  angel,  have  I  worshipped  while  thou  hast  been 
seeking." 

"  I  have  sought  in  vain  —  all  in  vain,"  returned  the  angel 
mournfully ;  "  Oh  !  when  will  the  end  be  ?  " 

"  'And  then  shall  the  end  come ! '  "  answered  a  deep  melodi 
ous  voice  which  made  Zillah  start  and  the  angel  open  his  large, 
mild,  mournful  eyes  in  wonder. 

The  figure  that  stood  beside  them  might  have  risen  from 
the  shivering  piles  of  withered  leaves  which  the  wantoning 
night-wind  had  thrown  up  in  heaps  along  the  plain ;  or  shaped 
itself  from  the  mist  that  dangled  in  lon^  gray  wreaths  from 


268  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

the  tops  of  chimneys,  hovered  in  great  shadowy  wings  around 
silent  windows,  or  rolled  up,  fold  on  fold,  like  an  ominous  cur 
tain  from  the  reeking  earth.  It  was  that  of  a  man,  but  not 
such  as  walk  the  world  in  modern  times.  His  beard  was 
parted  upon  the  lip,  and  descended,  a  mass  of  waving  silver, 
to  the  girdle ;  and  long  floating  locks,  like  the  snow  in  white-  < 
ness,  shaded  his  scarce  wrinkled  brow,  beneath  which  looked 
out  a  pair  of  eyes  as  soft,  mild,  blue  and  dewy  as  the  sky  of 
a  summer  evening.  The  angel  felt  his  heart  irresistibly  drawn  1 
back  to  the  time  when  he  was  sinless,  for  there  was  something  \ 
pure  and  spirit-like  upon  the  face  of  the  stranger,  which, 
though  it  lacked  the  loftiness  of  a  brother  angel,  was  yet  so 
beautiful,  so  meek,  and  so  full  of  love,  that  the  highest  seraph 
wrould  scarce  have  lost  by  the  exchange.  He  was  evidently 
old,  very  old ;  but  it  was  such  age  as  the  father  of  our  race 
might  have  exhibited,  when  eight  centuries  had  passed  over 
him  and  left  him  still  unscathed.  His  voice  was  deep,  strong, 
and  mellifluous ;  his  eye  undimmed ;  his  cheek  full,  though 
lacking  somewhat  the  roundness  of  youth ;  his  lip  ruddy,  his 
frame  muscular  and  erect,  and  his  foot  firm.  Still  he  was  old, 

—  that  could  not  be  doubted ;  but  Time  had  never  touched 
him  with  palsied  finger;  no   blight  had  reached  sinew,  or 
brain,  or  heart,  and  every  year  that  had  passed  over  him  had 
brought  new  strength  and  vigor. 

"  '  And  then  shall  the  end -come !'  *'  he  repeated  in  fervid 
tones ;  while  a  deep  enthusiasm  kindled  in  every  feature  a 
voiceless  eloquence. 

"When,  father?"  inquired  the  angel  reverently. 

"  When  the  commandment  shall  have  been  obeyed,  when 
the  work  is  accomplished"  — 

"  What  commandment  ?  what  work  ?  Are  we  to  search  ? 
to  dig  ?  If  thou  knowest  where  this  fountain  flows,  tell  me, 
oh,  tell  me  !  I  will  climb  the  most  inaccessible  rock,  I  will 
penetrate  the  cave  where  sleeps  the  deadliest  miasma,  with 
my  single  hand  I  will  open  a  passage  to  the  core  of  the  earth 

—  only  tell  me  where  to  seek,  and  I  will  ask  no  more." 

The  stranger  fixed  a  wondering  and  yet  benign  glance  upon 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  269 

the  perturbed  countenance  of  the  angel.  "  And  dost  thou  not 
know?" 

"  No,  no  ;  but  tell  me,  and  I  will  bless  thee  forever!" 

"  Nayr  bless  Him  —  Him !  Surely  thou  hast  heard  of  the 
Glorious  Ransom." 

"  I  have  heard,"  whispered  the  angel,  in  deep  awe,  "  but  it 
was  THERE  ;  and  even  our  harps  and  voices  were  silent.  I 
dare  not  speak  of  that  where  the  air  is  so  heavy  with  the 
weight  of  earth's  defilements.  And  it  can  never  come  to  me." 

"  To  thee  !  there  is  not  a  human  being"  — 

"  Nay,  nay,  old  man ;  thou  dost  not  understand  thine  own 
words.  But  tell  me  of  the  end.  I  see  something  upon  thy 
forehead  unlike  the  brand  of  thy  miserable  race,  and  I  think 
the  golden  secret  lies  in  thy  bosom.  I  would  fain  know  when 
this  weary  pilgrimage  will  be  finished." 

The  venerable  ancient  fixed  his  penetrating  eye  for  a  mo 
ment  on  his  companion,  whispering  to  himself,  "  And  he  too ! 
it  cannot  be  !  I  thought  myself  alone  ! "  and  then,  evidently 
puzzled,  though  more  than  pleased  to  recite  a  story  in  which 
his  whole  soul  was  interested,  he  commenced  : 

"  Eighteen  hundred  years  ago  Rome  was  at  the  height  of 
her  glory.  All  the  principal  nations  of  the  earth  owned  her 
sway  and  gloried  in  their  bondage.  The  redder  forms  of  tyr 
anny  had  departed.  The  brow  of  Octavius  Augustus  was 
mild  beneath  his  crown ;  while  under  the  patronage  of  the 
wise  Mecenas,  and  by  the  taper  of  Grecian  genius,  the  loftiest 
forms  of  art  were  born  and  flourished.  The  voice  of  eloquence 
sounded  in  the  forum,  the  flowers  of  poesy  budded  and  blos 
somed  in  palace  and  in  cot,  life  sprang  from  the  silent  marble, 
the  canvass  glowed,  and  Philosophy  linked  arms  with  Pleas 
ure,  and  wandered  about  her  sacred  groves,  or  dallied  in  her 
luxurious  gardens.  But  HE  ivas  not  a  Roman.  On  her  proud 
brow  the  Queen  of  the  Nations  wore  the  half-crushed  chaplet 
of  Grecian  liberty,  a  beautiful  wreath  dropping  with  the  match 
less  perfume  which  still  lingers  around  her  broken  columns 
and  crumbling  arches,  around  the  spiritual  ideal  breathing  in 
the  creations  of  her  artists,  and  around  the  graves  of  her  phi- 

VOL.  ii.  23* 


270  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

losophers,  her  poets  and  her  statesmen.  But  HE  was  not  of 
Greece,  In  one  proud  hand  Rome  held  a  jewel  unequalled  in 
gorgeousness,  a  golden  lotus  gathered  from  the  banks  of  the 
Nile,  and  now  crimsoned  by  the  blood  of  the  beautiful  and 
perfidious  Cleopatra ;  and  in  the  other  she  clasped  a  rude  but 
strong  and  valuable  chain  whose  rough  links  bore  the  names 
of  Gaul,  Germany  and  Switzerland.  But  HE  came  from  none, 
of  these. 

"  The  mistress  of  the  world  felt  quivering  beneath  her  san 
dalled  foot,  and  pressed  more  closely  as  it  quivered,  a  strange 
nation,  with  strange  laws,  strange  customs  and  a  strange 
religion,  despised  alike  by  the  Roman,  the  Greek  and  the 
Egyptian,  small  in  territory,  divided  within  itself,  weak  in 
arms,  and  learned  but  in  its  own  laws.  This  was  the  once 
favored  nation  of  the  Jews.  Jerusalem,  fallen,  degraded,  en 
slaved,  still  bore  some  traces  of  ancient  splendor.  There  stood 
the  Holy  Temple,  though  desecrated  by  Mammon ;  the  chil 
dren  of  the  prophets  still  gathered  in  their  synagogues  ;  and 
the  proud  Pharisee  swept  in  his  fringed  garments  from  the 
council  chamber  to  the  altar,  lounged  on  rich  cushions,  and 
quaffed  the  blood  of  the  grape  from  goblets  of  massive  gold 
and  richly  chased  silver.  But  HE  claimed  not  his  home  in 
Jerusalem.  In  Galilee,  in  despised,  contemned  Galilee,  and 
not  its  fairest  city  —  not  Capernaum,  not  Cana  —  but  in 
poor,  mean,  hated,  contemptible  Nazareth  —  there  sprang  the 
Fountain  of  Life ;  there,  from  that  dark,  unknown  corner, 
from  that  smallest,  most  degraded  city  of  the  most  degraded 
quarter  of  the  earth,  HE,  the  Mighty  One,  the  King  of  Glory, 

!  walked  forth  and  named  himself  the  Son  of  man,  the  Saviour 

\of  a  fallen,  helpless,  miserable  race." 

"  I  know  Him  —  I  know  Him,"  murmured  the  angel,  bend 
ing  his  knee  and  shading  his  brow  with  his  hand.  "  Go  on," 
he  added  after  a  moment's  pause  ;  "  go  on ;  tell  me  more ;  it 
cannot  reach  me,  but  —  my  poor  Zillah  !  —  tell  me  all." 

"  He  sought  meanness  of  origin  and  poverty,  not  because 
there  was  virtue  in  these,  but  for  thejsake  of  the  lowly  poor," 
continued  the  stranger,  his  cheek  glowing  and  his  eye  lighting 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  271 

excitement  of  his  theme.  "  His  mother  was  the  betrothed 
bride  of  a  poor  carpenter,  his  cradle  was  in  a  stable — His,  the 
sovereign  Prince  of  the  Universe !  But  a  choir  of  angels 
came  to  rouse  the  earth  to  sing  his  welcome  ;  a  new  star  was 
set  upon  the  brow  of  night,  and  in  its  light  the  magii  of  the 
East,  the  philosophers  of  the  Persian  court,  bent  in  worship 
to  the  clay-shrined  God ;  and  a  haughty  monarch  so  trembled 
in  his  kingly  purple,  when  he  heard  of  the  obscure  infant,  that 
hundreds  of  tiny  graves  were  opened,  each  stained  by  the 
blood  of  the  helpless  and  moistened  by  a  mother's  tears." 

"  Go  on  !  go  on ! "  whispered  the  angel. 

"  The  humble  Nazarene  put  on  the  tasseled  robe  of  a 
teacher,  but  he  turned  not  to  the  palace  for  his  disciples,  nor 
lingered  he  by  the  proud  door  of  the  Sanhedrim.  He  wan 
dered  by  the  lone  Galilean  lake,  he  sought  those  places  where 
men  never  look  for  honor,  calling  the  unlettered  and  the  lowly 
to  his  side,  the  ignorant  fisherman  from  his  nets,  and  the  de 
spised  publican  from  his  scrip.  And  yet  this  obscure  man, 
with  these  humble  followers,  stirred  at  once  proud,  pompous 
Jewry  to  her  centre.  He  toiled  and  suffered,  toiled  and  suf 
fered,  and  wept,  and  then  he  died,  as  none  but  malefactors 
ever  died  before." 

The  old  man  paused  in  his  story,  as  though  too  much  agi 
tated  to  proceed ;  while  the  angel  echoed  in  mingled  awe  and 
surprise,  "  He  died  !  He  could  not  die  ! " 

"He — he  was  borne  to  his  sepulchre,"  continued  the  meek 
ancient,  "but  the  grave  could  not  hold  the  Son  of  \God.  He 
died  far  us,  he  rose  for  us,  and  he  waits  us  at  the  righfitrmd  vf 
his  Father." 

There  was  a  long,  unbroken,  almost  breathless  silence,  — 
Zillah  bending  forward  in  meek  awe,  her  brow  pressed  to  the 
altar,  the  face  of  the  angel  buried  reverentially  in  his  folded 
arms,  and  the  patriarch  standing  with  upraised  eye  and  clasped 
hands,  his  face  glowing  with  love  and  rapture. 

"And  the  ransomed — when  will  He  call  them  home  ?"  at 
last  the  angel  inquired. 

"  They  drop  into  the  grave  at  morning,  in  the  blaze  of  day, 


272  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

and  at  midnight;  every  hour,  every  moment — even  now 
while  we  speak,  some  freed  spirit  is  passing,  and  there  are 
snowy  wings  that  hover  at  the  portal  of  death  to  bear  it  away 
to  Paradise." 

"But  when  will  He  call  all?  when  will  the  end  be?"  in 
quired  the  angel,  with  tremulous  eagerness. 

"  Thou  wouldst  know  when  will  arise  the  cry  of  the  angel, 
'  Thrust  in  thy  sharp  sickle,  and  gather  the  clusters  of  the  vine 
of  the  earth ;  for  her  grapes  are  fully  ripe.'  But  futurity  has 
the  secret  hidden  deep  in  the  folds  of  her  misty  robes,  and 
neither  man  nor  angel  may  rob  her  of  the  treasure.  Yet,  my 
son,  I  can  give  thee  the  key,  and  if"  — 

"  Quick!  quick!" 

"He  told  us  —  He  —  He  taught."  The  old  man  paused, 
composed  his  features,  and  resumed :  "  To  those  disciples 
called  from  the  wayside,  from  the  boat  of  the  fisherman  and 
lowly  roof  of  the  laborer,  rude,  unlettered,  and  of  no  repute 
among  men,  whose  hands  had  never  touched  the  soft  palm  of 
the  Pharisee,  and  whose  voices  had  learned  to  tremble  and 
falter  in  such  an  august  presence  —  tojhese  lowest  of  the  sons 
of  this  world,  He  confided  the  wealth  of  heaven,'  such  rare 
jewels  of  truth  as  never  before  glittered  beneath  the  stars ;  and 
these  humble,  unknown  men  He  commissioned  to  bear  their 
treasures  to  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  At  Jerusalem  they 
began,  and  tower  and  temple  trembled  to  their  deep  founda 
tions.  Thence  they  scattered  their  living  pearls  over  hill  and 
vale,  far  and  wide,  wherever  the  foot  of  man  had  trodden  or 
lay  the  stain  of  sin. 

"  Even '  Grecian  philosophy  bent  her  polished  ear  when  a 
follower  of  the  Crucified  stood  in  one  of  the  proudest  courts 
of  Athens,  and  Epicurean  and  Stoic  were  alike  confounded  by 
the  simple  but  sublime  eloquence  of  truth.  Rome,  too,  proud 
Rome  acknowledged  the  still  small  voice  which  had  stolen  up 
from  far  Nazareth ;  but  when  she  strove  to  honor  it  with  pur 
ple  and  crimson  the  voice  died  among  the  caves  and  dens  of 
the  wilderness,  the  jewel  receded  from  her  grasp,  while  she 
placed  its  blazing  semblance  on  her  forehead,  and  all  Europe 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  273 

bowed  the  knee  to  the  falsehood.  But  while  in  the  name  of 
the  crucified  Nazarene,  who  trod  the  earth  in  sadness  and  dis 
honor,  the  princes  of  the  earth  drew  the  lance,  and  knight  and 
noble  paved  the  way  to  his  own  emolument,  while  war  and 
carnage  ran  riot  throughout  Christendom,  and  Jew  and  Sara 
cen  were  taught  to  despise  the  religion  which  turned  men  into 
beasts  of  prey  and  deformed  the  face  of  creation ;  from  distant 
caves  and  lowly  valleys  the  meek  voice  of  prayer  still  arose, 
and  still Jhe  casket  of  the  jewels  of  truth  was  the  human  heart.  x 
Through  the  red  blood  flowing  at  the  mandate  of  Egyptian 
priest  and  Roman  pontiff;  through  the  crevices  of  the  rocks 
of  Switzerland,  the  hidden  nooks  environing  the  valley  of 
Piedmont,  the  republican  plains  of  Germany,  and  the  wild, 
picturesque  mountains  of  Scotland;  through  wrong  without 
ruth,  through  the  dungeon  and  the  rack,  through  the  bloody 
knife  and  blazing  faggot,  these  jewels  of  truth,  these  Waters 
of-Life  have  been  borne  "  — 

"And  now!  where  are  they  now?"  interrupted  the  angel, 
with  almost  vehement  earnestness. 

"  Dost  thou  see  yon  church-spire,  piercing  the  gray  mist  and 
glittering  in  the  one  pale  ray  which  the  moon  sheds  from  her* 
veiled  throne?  Go  thither  and  love,  and  raise  thy  wings 
heavenward.  Or  here,"  lifting  the  folds  of  his  robe  and  dis 
closing  a  small  volume ;  "  here  the  Waters  spring ;  here  the 
Tree  of  Life  flourishes.  Search !  thou  wilt  find  its  blossoms 
on  every  page." 

"  Not  for  me  !  Alas  !  not  for  me  ! "  murmured  the  angel, 
while  Zillah,  raising  her  forehead  from  the  altar  where  it  had 
rested,  and  extending  her  hands,  eagerly  exclaimed,  "  For 
me  !  for  me  !  to  fit  me  for  the  day  when  thy  wings,  my  angel, 
shall  be  full  of  glory,  that  we  may  mount  together  to  the 
throne  of  the  Eternal.  But,  father,  I  \vould  fain  know  when 
that  may  be.  We  are  to  tread  the  earth  until  that  hour." 

"  And  I,"  returned  the  ancient,  "  have  the  same  pilgrimage 
before  me." 

" But  when,  oh  when  shall  it  be  accomplished?" 


274  THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

"  Not  until  every  altar  like  this  thou  hast  reared  shall  be 
cast  down." 

Zillah  raised  a  startled  eye  to  the  face  of  the  patriarch,  and 
cast  herself  precipitately  before  the  altar. 

"  What !  have  I  not  told  thee  that  the  Great  Sacrifice  has 
been  offered,  and  may  not  my  testimony  be  believed  ?  Did  I 
not  stand  beside  the  cross,  and,  while  bidden  to  tarry  till  a  sec 
ond  coming,  see  the  sinless  victim  bleed  ?  What  wouldst  thou 
more  ?  Canst  thou  not  make  the  sacrifice  thine  own  ?  Faith 
and  love  alone  are  required  of  thee  —  wilt  thou  not  believe  ?" 

Zillah  remained  still  meekly  bending  before  the  altar,  but 
her  thoughts  had  risen  far  above  it.  The  light  of  truth  was 
slowly  breaking  over  her  countenance,  illuminating  each  fea 
ture  with  a  deep,  subdued  enthusiasm,  till  the  frail,  beautiful 
daughter  of  earth  seemed  to  bear  more  traces  of  heaven  than 
the  exiled  angel. 

"  Every  false  altar  must  be  cast  down,"  continued  the  an 
cient  ;  "  the  commandment  must  be  obeyed ;  the  Fountain  of 
Life  must  gush  forth  in  the  midst  of  every  people ;  the  jewels 
of  truth,  borne  through  suffering  and  blood  till  nearly  half  the 
.world  acknowledges  their  beauty,  must  be  scattered  freely 
over  every  portion  of  the  globe,  and  far  above  the  standards 
of  the  nations  must  float  the  banner  of  the  Crucified.  He  that 
was  God,  was  man,  and  is  the  God  of  glory  henceforth  and 
forever.  The  mighty  work  intrusted  to  us  at  that  holy  part 
ing  moment  must  be  accomplished,  '  and  then  shall  the  end 
come.'" 

"  I  too  will  go  forth  upon  this  holy  mission,"  said  Zillah, 
bowing  her  head  meekly ;  "  perchance  my  weak  hand  may  be 
blest,  since  to  all  that  share  in  the  salvation  has  the  sweet 
work  been  intrusted." 

"  And  I  cannot  loiter  here,"  returned  the  angel,  "  though  I 
have  forfeited  my  right  to  be  in  any  way  a  ministering  spirit 
to  the  race.  Go  thou,  my  Zillah,  and  I  will  hover  in  thy 
footsteps,  I  will  nurse  the  flowers  thou  lovest,  and  scatter  their 
perfume  in  thy  pathway.  When  evil  is  near,  I  will  shield 
thy  loved  head ;  I  will  watch  by  thy  side  during  the  remain- 


THE  ANGEL'S  PILGRIMAGE.  275 

der  of  this  fearful  night,  and  when  the  morning  at  last  dawns 
thou  shalt  know  its  approach  by  the  ray  which  falls  upon  thy 
angel's  renovated  pinions.  To  the  work,  my  Zillah ;  it  is  one 
which  will  ennoble  even  thee." 

The  mild  old  man  smiled ;  and  I  almost  fancied  that  I  saw 
something  stirring  at  the  side  of  the  angel,  as  though  every 
fresh  consecration  of  ransomed  mortal  brought  nearer  the  hour 
of  final  triumph ;  and  then  the  entire  vision  vanished. 

I  was  leaning  from  my  window  as  an  hour  previous  ;  but 
the  little  girl  stood  no  longer  upon  the  bridge,  and  Strawberry 
Hill  and  the  hoary  old  trees  above  it  were  slumbering  in  soft 
summer  shadows.  The  moon,  now  a  soft  silver  crescent,  had 
climbed  far  up  her  azure  pathway,  and  lay  a  sweet  smile  upon 
the  face  of  the  sky,  and  the  earth  was  smiling  back  a  beauti 
ful  response  in  every  dew-drop.  For  a  moment  I  thought  the 
creatures  of  my  drama  were  about  me,  but  in  the  next  I  knew 
that  Zillah  and  her  angel  were  born  of  the  wildest  fiction ; 
and  that  the  ashes  of  the  beloved  disciple,  if  not  mingled  with 
the  farthest  elements,  still  slept  at  Ephesus.  But  much,  very 
much,  had  mingled  in  my  thoughts  in  which  dreaming  had  no 
part.  And  as  I  carefully  separated  the  threads  of  fiction  that 
had  entangled  themselves  in  the  richer  woof  of  truth,  I  longed 
to  exclaim,  in  the  words  of  my  fabulous  Zillah,  "  I  too  will  go 
forth  upon  this  holy  mission ! " 


276 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT. 

GOD  "  bowed  the  heavens  and  came  down,"  and  breathed 
upon  the  earth;  and  a  "living  soul"  was  born.  It  was  not 
an  angel,  to  watch  over  the  destinies  of  man,  and  interpose  its 
white  wing  between  him  and  evil ;  but  it  was  a  thing  as 
lovely ;  and  so  it  looked  about  to  find  itself  a  fit  dwelling- 
place.  While  it  paused  in  doubt,  there  came  fluttering  by  a 
gay,  beautiful  creature,  its  bright  wings  woven  in  the  loom 
from  which  the  Iris  sprung,  all  glittering  in  gold  and  crimson, 
now  bathing  in  the  dew  and  now  in  the  sun-light,  brilliant 
and  blithesome,  and  light  as  the  air  on  which  it  balanced. 
The  spirit  grew  glad  at  the  pretty  sight,  and  as  the  tiny  won 
der  again  swept  past,  it  thought  within  itself,  "  What  a  delight 
ful  thing  to  be  a  butterfly ! "  Instantly,  a  pair  of  gorgeous 
wings  sprouted  from  the  thought ;  and  the  embodied  spirit 
flew  exultingly  up  and  down  the  earth,  careering  in  the  light, 
and  glorying  in  its  new-found  beauties.  Sometimes  it  paused 
to  peep  into  the  hearts  of  the  young  flowers ;  and  sipped  dain 
tily  the  sweets  which  dwelt  on  their  fresh  lips,  and  fanned 
them  when  they  drooped,  arid  bathed  in  their  perfume ;  and 
at  night  it  folded  up  its  wings  and  made  its  couch  where  the 
moon-beam  lay  most  lovingly.  But  it  could  not  sleep.  That 
was  a  breath  from  heaven,  stirring  those  gorgeous  wings,  the 
"  living  soul "  within,  swelling  and  struggling,  conscious  that 
it  was  not  performing  its  mission.  There  could  not  be  a 
orighter  nor  gayer  life,  and  surely  the  innocent  little  butterfly 
was  not  guilty  of  doing  harm  ;  but  there  was  a  chiding  voice 
came  up  from  within,  and  the  dissatisfied  spirit  could  not 
sleep.  Finally,  it  grew  sorrowful,  even  in  the  midst  of  its 
light  companions,  as  they  poised  and  reeled  in  the  sunlight, 
intoxicated  by  the  mere  bliss  of  living.  And  every  day  it 
grew  more  and  more  sorrowful,  and  its  wings  heavier,  till  at 


THE    DISSATISFIED   SPIRIT.  277 

last  it  cried  out  in  sharp  anguish.  Beautiful  and  innocent 
was  the  life  of  the  gay  insect ;  but  the  God-born  spirit  was 
not  created  to  waste  itself  on  a  sunbeam  or  a  flower ;  and 
those  magnificent  wings  were  leaden  fetters  to  it.  A  bird 
was  carolling  on  the  tree  above,  and,  as  the  saddened  spirit 
looked  up,  it  thought  of  the  happy  hearts  which  the  little 
songster  made,  and  how  it  praised  God  in  its  light  joyousness, 
and  then  exclaimed,  pantingly,  "  What  a  sweet  thing  to  be  a 
bird ! " 

A  little  child  found  a  dead  butterfly  at  the  foot  of  the  red 
maple  tree,  that  morning ;  and  as  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
there  came  such  a  gush  of  melody  from  the  green  above, 
that  she  started  back  in  pleased  astonishment ;  and  then, 
clapping  her  soft  hands  together,  she  raised  her  infantile  voice 
in  clear,  ringing  tones,  fraught  with  the  music  of  a  mirthful 
heart.  On  the  instant,  there  came  a  rushing  sound  from  the 
massive  foliage ;  a  pair  of  beautiful  wings  broke  thence,  and 
balanced  for  a  moment  above ;  then  descended,  hovering 
about  the  head  of  the  child,  as  though  bestowing  some  word 
less  blessing;  and,  finally,  spread  themselves  for  flight.  The 
bird  paused  where  the  laborer  rested  at  noon-tide ;  and  the 
eye  of  the  strong  man  brightened  as  he  wiped  the  sweat 
away,  and  leaned  against  the  rugged  bark  of  the  meadow-tree, 
yielding  himself  up  to  the  delicious  influence  of  its  music. 
Then  it  flew  to  the  casement  of  the  invalid,  and  thence  to  the 
roof-tree  of  the  cotter;  and  thence  it  still  pursued  its  way 
kindly  and  lovingly,  pausing  to  warble  a  moment  even  by  the 
barred  window  of  the  criminal.  For  many  a  day,  the  bird- 
embodied  spirit  was  happy  and  contented,  and  believed  itself 
sent 'upon  earth  but  for  the  purpose  of  winning  men,  by  such 
smaJ,  sweet  efforts,  from  sorrow.  But,  as  it  nestled  one 
night  in  the  foliage  of  the  forest  tree,  there  came  a  sad  mis 
giving,  to  trouble  it.  It  had  heard  of  a  nobler  mission  than  it 
had  yet  dared  to  contemplate ;  it  had  looked  into  a  path  toil 
some,  and  difficult  to  walk  in,  strewn  with  thorns,  and  beset 
with  dangers ;  but  yet  glorious  in  that  it  had  been  trodden  by 
a  Holy  One,  who  had  linked  it  to  heaven.  The  timid  spirit 

VOL.  ii.  24 


278  THE    DISSATISFIED   SPIRIT. 

trembled  as  it  thought,  and  folded  its  soft  pinions  over  its 
breast,  and  strove  to  recollect  all  the  good  it  had  done  that 
day — how  it  had  softened  the  nature  of  the  sinful,  and 
dropped  balm  into  the  bosom  of  the  sorrowing ;  but  it  could 
not  shut  down  the  high  aspirations  which  were  swelling 
within  it.  It  knew  well  that  the  spirit  of  the  little  bird  was 
not,  like  itself,  an  emanation  from  the  Deity.  When  the  song 
was  hushed,  and  the  plumage  drooped,  it  would  "  go  down 
ward  to  the  earth  ;"  but  the  living  soul,  born  of  the  breath  of 
the  Almighty,  could  not  so  perish.  Should  it  fling  aside  its 
loftier  gifts,  and  take  upon  itself  the  mission  (sweet  and  beauti 
ful  though  that  mission  might  be)  of  the  soulless  bird  ?  "  Ah, 
no  ! "  thought  the  pretty  warbler,  while  its  wings  seemed 
swelling  to  eagle's  pinions;  "the  air  is  full  of  birds  —  the 
world  is  ringing  with  melody  —  it  is  delightful  to  swell  the 
care-free  chorus ;  but  there  is  a  higher,  nobler  mission,  still." 
As  its  breast  heaved  with  these  new  emotions,  a  soft  sound, 
as  of  a  lute,  stole  up  from  a  neighboring  grove,  and  an  exqui 
sitely  modulated  voice,  with  deep  earnestness,  clothed  its 
secret  thoughts  in  words : 

"  I  waste  no  more  in  idle  dreams,  my  life,  my  soul  away  ; 
I  wake  to  know  my  better  self —  I  wake  to  watch  and  pray. 
Thought,  feeling,  time,  on  idols  vain  I  've  lavished  all  too  long  ; 
Henceforth,  to  holier  purposes  I  pledge  myself,  my  song  ! 
Oh,  still  within  the  inner  veil,  upon  the  spirit's  shrine, 
Still,  unprofaned  by  evil,  burns  the  one  pure  spark  divine, 
Which  God  has  kindled  in  us  all,  and  be  it  mine  to  tend 
Henceforth,  with  vestal  thought  and  care,  the  light  that  lamp  may  lend. 

"  I  shut  mine  eyes,  in  grief  and  shame,  upon  the  dreary  past, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  poured  recklessly  on  dreams  that  could  not  last, 
My  bark  has  drifted  down  the  stream,  at  will  of  wind  or  wave, 
An  idle,  light,  and  fragile  thing,  that  few  had  cared  to  save. 
Henceforth,  the  tiller  Truth  shall  hold  and  steer  as  Conscience  tells, 
And  I  will  brave  the  storms  of  fate,  though  wild  the  ocean  swells. 
I  know  my  soul  is  strong  and  high,  if  once  I  give  it  sway ; 
I  feel  a  glorious  power  within,  though  light  I  seem,  and  gay. 
O,  laggard  soul !  unclose  thine  eyes.     No  more  in  luxury  soft 
Of  joy  ideal  waste  thyself!    Awake,  and  soar  aloft! 
Unfurl,  this  hour,  those  falcon  wings  which  thou  dost  fold  too  long; 
Raise  to  the  skies  thy  lightning  gaze,  and  sing  the  loftiest  song."* 

*  Mrs.  Osgood. 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT.  279 

The  song  ceased,  and  the  struggling,  God-horn  spirit, 
looked  down  on  the  cold  earth;  and,  not  forgetting  toil,  and 
suffering,  and  weariness  —  not  forgetting  the  degradation  of 
sin,  and  the  constant  wrestling  of  the  higher  with  the  baser 
nature  —  exclaimed,  with  deep  enthusiasm,  "  What  a  sublime 
thing  to  be  a  man ! " 

A  songster  was  missed  from  the  woodland ;  and  that  same 
day  knelt  one  in  prayer ;  and  then,  humble,  but  strong,  and 
happier  far  than  butterfly  or  bird,  went  cheerfully  fcrtn  on 
man's  great  mission — TO  DO  GOOD. 


280 


TO  MY   FATHER. 

A  WELCOME  for  thy  child,  father, 

A  welcome  give  to-day ; 
Although  she  may  not  come  to  thee 

As  when  she  went  away ; 
Though  never  in  that  olden  nest 

Is  she  to  fold  her  wing, 
And  live  again  the  days  when  first 

She  learned  to  fly  and  sing. 

Oh,  happy  were  those  days,  father, 

When,  gathering  round  thy  knee, 
Seven  sons  and  daughters  called  thee  sire ; 

We  come  again  —  but  three; 
The  grave  has  claimed  thy  loveliest  ones, 

And  sterner  things  than  death 
Have  cast  a  shadow  on  thy  brow, 

A  sigh  upon  thy  breath. 

And  one  —  one  of  the  three,  father, 

Now  comes  to  thee  to  claim 
Thy  blessing  on  another  lot, 

Upon  another  name ; 
Where  tropic  suns  forever  burn, 

Far  over  land  and  wave, 
The  child  whom  thou  hast  loved  would  make 

Her  hearth-stone  and  her  grave. 

Thou  'It  never  wait  again,  father, 

Thy  daughter's  coming  tread ; 
She  ne'er  will  see  thy  face  on  earth, 

So  count  her  with  thy  dead ; 


TO    MY    FATHER.  231 

But  in  the  land  of  life  and  love, 

Not  sorrowing  as  now, 
She  '11  come  to  thee,  and  come,  perchance, 

With  jewels  on  her  brow. 

Perchance; — I  do  not  know,  father, 

If  any  part  be  given 
My  untaught  hand  among  the  guides 

Who  point  the  way  to  heaven ; 
But  it  would  be  a  joy  untold 

Some  erring  foot  to  stay ; 
Remember  this,  when  gathering  round, 

Ye  for  the  exile  pray. 

Let  nothing  here  be  changed,  father; 

I  would  remember  all, 
Where  every  ray  of  sunshine  rests, 

And  where  the  shadows  fall. 
And  now  I  go ;  with  faltering  foot 

I  pass  the  threshold  o'er, 
And  gaze  through  tears  on  that  dear  roof, 

My  shelter  never-more. 
VOL.  n. 


282 


FAREWELL  TO   ALDERBROOK. 

"  Farewell : 
I  may  not  dwell 
'Mid  flowers  and  music  ever." 

THE  hours  of  my  childhood  have  gone  back  to  their  old 
obliviousness  in  eternity;  youth  is  on  the  wing,  fleeing — 
fleeing — fleeing.  There  is  but  a  narrow  shadow  lying 
between  my  foot  and  the  grave  which  it  seeks  —  a  veil  of  gray 
mist,  that  a  few  to-days  will  dissolve  into — what?  —  the 
sickening  perfume  of  dead  flowers,  or  incense  grateful  to 
Heaven  ? 

This  is  a  beautiful,  bright  world,  made  for  pure  beings. 
At  its  birth  angels  walked  among  its  cool  shadows,  bent  to 
its  bright  waters,  and  inhaled  its  perfumes ;  and  they  fled 
not,  those  holy  ones,  till  their  wings  drooped  beneath  the 
defiling  heaviness  of  sin.  A  false  breath  played  upon  the 
brow  of  man ;  heedlessly  he  opened  his  bosom  to  it ;  and 
there  it  at  once  nestled,  a  fatal  poison,  ever  distilling  venom. 
Still  the  flowers  bloomed ;  still  the  waters  flashed  and 
sparkled  in  the  warm  light;  still  the  breezes  waved  their 
censers  laden  with  rich  perfume  ;  still  the  birds  carolled ;  the 
stars  smiled ;  leaves  rustled,  kissing  each  other  lovingly ; 
dews  slumbered  in  lily  bells  and  the  hearts  of  roses,  and 
crept  around  withering  roots,  and  revived  fading  petals  ;  the 
sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  silver  twilight,  each  wrought  its 
own  peculiar  broidery  on  earth  and  sky ;  but  upon  the  flow 
ers,  and  the  fresh  leaves,  and  the  waters,  and  the  breezes, 
the  gay,  beautiful  birds,  and  the  silent  dews,  on  sun,  and 
moon,  and  stars,  on  all,  everything  of  earth,  rested  the  taint 
of  sin.  In  the  morning  of  this  little  day  of  time,  what  more 
deliciously  sweet  than  to  recline  among  the  blossoming  luxu« 


FAREWELL   TO   ALDERBROOK.  2S3 

riance  of  Eden,  and  worship  God,  there,  in  his  own  temple  ?  It 
was  the  object  of  life  to  enjoy  its  own  blissfulness,  and  praise 
Him  who  gave  it.  But  when,  on  the  whisper  of  the  Tempter, 
sin  came,  it  brought  a  change.  The  poison  hid  itself  among 
all  the  beautiful  things  that  we  most  love,  engendering  thorns 
and  producing  discord :  it  festered  in  our  hearts,  revelled  in 
our  veins,  and  polluted  our  lips,  until  the  angels  veiled  their 
faces  in  disgust,  and  man  was  left  with  "  no  eye  to  pity,  no 
arm  to  save."  Then,  from  the  dense  cloud,  broke  forth  a  ray 
of  glory ;  a  crowned  Head  looked  out  in  pity ;  divine  lips 
bent  to  the  poisoned  wound ;  and  lost,  ruined  man  found  a 
Saviour.  He  was  heralded  by  angels  ;  angels  are  still  whis 
pering,  "Look!  look!  live!"  that  Saviour  is  standing  with 
love-beaming  eyes  and  arms  extended;  but  men  are  blind 
and  cannot  see  his  beauty.  Shall  I  sit  down  among  thy 
flowers,  sweet  Alderbrook,  while  my  Eedeemer  is  dishonored, 
and  my  brethren,  the  sons  of  those  \vho  walked  with  God 
in  Eden,  die  ? 

"Faultless,  if  blinded?"— "  The  just  God  will  not  be 
angry  with  those  who,  not  knowing,  have  not  loved  him  ?" 
Who  has  said  it  ? 

Ah !  "  The  invisible  things  of  Him  from  the  creation  of  the 
ivorld  are  clearly  seen,  being  understood  by  the  things  that 
are  made,  even  his  eternal  poioer  and  Godhead  ;  so  that  they 
are  without  excuse"  The  beautiful  page  of  hill  and  dale 
and  sky  is  spread  open  to  all.  I  go  to  teach  my  brother  how 
to  read  it. 

Dear,  beautiful  Alderbrook !  I  have  loved  thee  as  I  shall 
never  love  any  other  thing  that  I  may  not  meet  after  the  sun 
of  Time  is  set.  Everything,  from  the  strong  old  tree  that 
\vrestles  with  the  tempest,  down  to  the  amber  moss-cup 
cradling  the  tiny  insect  at  its  roots,  and  the  pebble  sleeping 
at  the  bottom  of  the  brook, — everything  about  thee  has  been 
laden  with  its  own  peculiar  lesson.  Thou  art  a  rare  book, 
my  Alderbrook,  written  all  over  by  the  Creator's  finger. 
Dearly  do  I  love  the  holy  truths  upon  thy  pages ;  but,  "  I 
may  not  dwell  'mid  flowers  and  music  ever ;"  and  I  go 


284  FAREWELL   TO    ALDERBROOK. 

hence,  bearing  another,  choicer  book  in  my  hand,  and  echo 
ing  the  words  of  the  angels,  "  Look  !  look  !  live  ! " 

I  stand  on  the  verge  of  the  brook,  which  seems  to  me  more 
beautiful  than  any  other  brook  on  earth,  and  take  my  last 
survey  of  the  home  of  my  infancy.  The  cloud,  which  has 
been  hovering  above  the  trees  on  the  verge  of  heaven,  opens ; 
the  golden  light  gushes  forth,  bathing  the  hill-top,  and  stream 
ing  down  its  green  declivity  even  to  my  feet ;  and  I  accept 
the  encouraging  omen.  The  angel  of  Alderbrook,  "  the  min 
istering  spirit"  sent  hither  by  the  Almighty,  blesses  me. 
Father  in  heaven,  thy  blessing,  ere  I  go  ! 

Hopes  full  of  glory,  and  oh,  most  sweetly  sacred !  look  out 
upon  me  from  the  future ;  but,  for  a  moment,  their  beauty  is 
clouded.  My  heart  is  heavy  with  sorrow.  The  cup  at  my 
lip  is  very  bitter.  Heaven  help  me  !  White  hairs  are  bend 
ing  in  submissive  grief,  and  age-dimmed  eyes  are  made 
dimmer  by  the  gathering  of  tears.  Young  spirits  have  lost 
their  joyousness,  young  lips  forget  to  smile,  and  bounding 
hearts  and  bounding  feet  are  stilled.  Oh,  the  rending  of  ties, 
knitted  at  the  first  opening  of  the  infant  eye  and  strengthened 
by  numberless  acts  of  love,  is  a  sorrowful  thing !  To  make 
the  grave  the  only  door  to  a  meeting  with  those  in  whose 
bosoms  we  nestled,  in  whose  hearts  we  trusted  long  before 
we  knew  how  precious  was  such  love  and  trust,  brings  with 
it  an  overpowering  weight  of  solemnity.  But  a  grave  is 
yawning  for  each  one  of  us ;  and  is  it  much  to  choose  whether 
we  sever  the  tie  that  binds  us  here,  to-day,  or  lie  down  on  the 
morrow?  Ah,  the  "  weaver's  shuttle"  is  flying;  the  "  flower 
of  the  grass  "  is  withering ;  the  span  is  almost  measured ;  the 
tale  nearly  told ;  the  dark  valley  is  close  before  us  —  tread  we 
with  care ! 

My  mother,  we  may  neither  of  us  close  the  other's  dark 
ened  eye,  and  fold  the  cold  hands  upon  the  bosom ;  we 
may  neither  of  us  watch  the  sod  greening  and  withering 
above  the  other's  ashes  ;  but  there  are  duties  for  us  even 
more  sacred  than  these.  But  a  few  steps,  mother — diffi 
cult  the  path  may  be,  but  very  bright  —  and  then  we  put 


FAREWELL    TO    ALDERBROOK.  2S5 

on  the  robe  of  immortality,  and  meet  to  part  nevermore. 
And  we  shall  not  be  apart  even  on  earth.  There  is  an  elec 
tric  chain  passing  from  heart  to  heart  through  the  throne  of 
the  Eternal;  and  we  may  keep  its  links  all  brightly  bur 
nished  by  the  breath  of  prayer.  Still  pray  for  me,  mother, 
as  in  days  gone  by.  —  Thou  bidst  me  go.  The  smile  comes 
again  to  thy  lip  and  the  light  to  thine  eye,  for  thou  hast  plea 
sure  in  the  sacrifice.  Thy  blessing  !  Farewell,  my  mother, 
and  ye  loved  ones  of  the  same  hearth-stone  ! 

Bright,  beautiful,  dear  Alderbrook,  farewell ! 

FANNY  FORESTER. 

June  1,  1846. 


END   OF    VOL. 


-  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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